>       POEMS 

I          °F 

%  TENNYSON 

f®> 

V7       EDITED 


HENRY 
VAN  DYKE  % 


BY  HENRY  VAN   DYKE 

The  Valley  of  Vision 
Fighting  for  Peace 
The  Unknown  Quantity 
The  Ruling  Passion 
The  Blue  Flower 


Out -of-Doors  in  the  Holy  Land 
Days  Off 
Little  Rivers 
Fisherman's  Luck 


Poems,  Collection  in  one  volume 


Golden  Stars 

The  Red  Flower 

The  Grand  Canyon,  and  Other  Poems 

The  White  Bees,  and  Other  Poems 

The  Builders,  and  Other  Poems 

Music,  and  Other  Poems 

The  Toiling  of  Felix,  and  Other  Poems 

The  House  of  Rimmon 

Studies  in  Tennyson 
Poems  of  Tennyson 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 


POEMS   OF  TENNYSON 


P  n  T?  Ayr  c 

OF 
TENNYSON 

CHOSEN    AND    EDITED    WITH 

AN    INTRODUCTION 
BY 

HENRY  VAN  DYKE 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1920 


COPYRIGHT,  1903,  1980,  BY  HENRY  VAN  DYKE 


THE  8CRIBNER   PRE88 


PREFACE 

HEARING  and  reading  of  late  many  hard  and 
disdainful  words  regarding  the  so-called  Victorian 
Age, — a  remote  period  of  English  history  running 
from  about  1837  to  1900,— I  fell  to  thinking 
whether  some  compensations  and  consolations 
might  not  have  been  bestowed  on  that  derided  era. 
Something  certainly  was  due  to  make  up  for  its 
apparent  deficiencies  in  the  matter  of  architecture, 
domestic  furniture,  music,  painting,  feminine  cos- 
tume, the  wild  pleasures  of  revolution,  and  in  par- 
ticular for  its  complete  deprivation  of  the  uplifting 
and  entrancing  influence  of  moving-pictures.  It 
is  difficult  to  conceive  that  either  Evolution,  which 
is  supposedly  continuous,  or  Providence,  which  is 
presumably  not  altogether  unjust,  could  have  made 
such  a  break  as  to  leave  a  considerable  interval  of 
human  life  without  inheritance  from  the  past  or 
promise  for  the  future,  an  inane  epoch,  devoid 
alike  of  real  emotion  and  genuine  art,  the  joy  of 
living  and  the  incentives  of  a  noble  discontent. 

But  indeed  such  a  lamentable  conclusion  is  not 
necessary.  Looking  back  from  our  present  elevated 
position,  and  endeavoring  for  a  moment  to  free 
our  eyes  from  the  dazzling  New-Era-Consciousness 
which  pervades  the  air,  we  can  see  that  while  the 
fashions  have  changed,  the  essential  elements  and 
[vii] 


2033187 


PREFACE 

processes  of  real  human  life  in  the  Victorian  Age 
were  not  altogether  different  and  disconnected  from 
those  of  the  George-the-Fifthian  Age.  The  dis- 
coveries made  then  are  applied  now.  The  problems 
posed  then  are  being  worked  over  now.  There  has 
been  no  fundamental  alteration  in  human  nature 
since  the  Spanish- American  War,  the  Boer  War,  or 
even  since  the  late  Kaiser  War.  Conservatives  and 
radicals,  fools  and  wise  men,  fanatics  and  fakirs, 
contend  now  as  then  for  the  popular  favor  and 
following.  Even  automobiles  and  airplanes  have 
failed  to  transport  us  immediately  to  the  Land  of 
Happy  Freedom.  The  journey  to  that  goal  must 
still  be  made  on  foot.  And  the  real  helps  and  com- 
forts of  the  journey  are  still  good  friends,  good 
books,  good  hopes,  and  the  inward  spirit  of  good 
will.  Even  so  was  it  in  the  Victorian  Age. 

Whatever  may  have  been  its  defects  in  furniture, 
legislation,  and  so  on,  it  was  rich  in  one  consola- 
tion,— good  books,  the  reading  of  which  would 
make  even  a  plush  arm-chair  under  an  Argand 
lamp,  or  a  wooden  rocker  beside  a  stearine  candle, 
quite  tolerable.  In  England  and  in  America  dur- 
ing that  epoch  there  were  authors  who  knew  how 
to  use  good  English  to  good  purpose,  for  the  plea- 
sure and  the  profit  of  mankind.  Dickens  and 
Thackeray,  Hawthorne  and  Poe,  Stevenson  and 
Kipling,  Carlyle,  Emerson  and  Ruskin,  Tennyson 
[  viii  ] 


PREFACE 

and  Browning  were  all  Victorians,  of  one  style  or 
another.  What  they  wrote  was  excellent  when  it 
was  new;  and  it  remains  excellent  today.  It  is  still 
capable  of  giving  joy  and  light  to  readers  who  come 
to  it  with  an  open  mind,  immune  to  the  tetanus 
of  literary  theory. 

Far  be  it  from  us  to  refuse  due  attention  and 
wonder  to  "the  New  Poetry,"  "the  New  Era,"  and 
all  the  other  Newnesses.  But  while  we  inquire  re- 
spectfully just  how  new  a  thing  must  be  in  order 
to  be  worthy  of  admiration,  and  while  we  wait  pa- 
tiently for  these  novelties  to  fulfil  their  promises, 
may  we  not  keep  with  us  some  things  a  little  less 
new,  to  serve  as  standards,  and  to  cheer  us  in  our 
waiting  ?  May  we  not  refresh  the  fire  on  our  hearth 
with  a  few  logs  of  well-seasoned  wood?  Must  we 
accept  the  dictum  of  a  Chicago  poet  who  says,  in 
his  inimitably  musical  style, 

"I  tell  you  the  past  is  a  bucket  of  ashes"  ? 

Meditating  thus,  it  seemed  to  me  that  now  might 
be  a  good  time  to  commend  anew  to  thoughtful 
readers,  who  like  to  find  delight  as  well  as  illumina- 
tion in  their  reading,  the  poetry  of  a  great  man  who 
was  one  of  the  chief  writers  of  the  Victorian  Age, — 
Tennyson.  He  may  have  been  over-praised  fifty 
years  ago;  but  he  is  certainly  undervalued,  in 
some  quarters,  at  this  time.  It  is  a  pity  to  have 


PREFACE 

a  path  so  fair,  and  affording  such  wide  and  beauti- 
ful prospects,  neglected  and  forsaken  for  the  trot- 
toir  of  fashion.  It  would  add  to  the  sum  of  general 
happiness,  it  might  even  clarify  the  popular  idea 
of  the  real  nature  and  values  of  poetic  art,  if  the 
poetry  of  Tennyson  were  more  widely  read  and 
better  understood. 

With  this  thought  in  mind  I  have  brought  to- 
gether the  results  of  more  than  thirty  years'  read- 
ing and  study  of  Tennyson  and  put  them,  with 
some  additions,  into  their  final  form  in  a  pair  of 
companion  volumes. 

I.  The  first  contains  a  General  Introduction  on 
the  life  and  art  of  Tennyson,  and  a  group  of 
his  Select  Poems,  so  arranged  as  to  show  the 
wonderful  variety  of  his  work,  the  steady  un- 
folding of  his  powers,  and  the  chief  qualities  of  his 
poetry. 

Books  of  poetic  selections  have  their  disadvan- 
tages. They  generally  include  some  pieces  which 
the  reader  personally  does  not  care  for  and  omit 
others  of  which  he  is  very  fond.  I  confess  that  they 
are  no  substitute  for  the  "complete  works"  of  an 
author. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  is  a  certain  gain  in  pre- 
senting in  a  small  compass  a  body  of  the  best  things 
that  a  poet  has  done,  disengaged  and  set  apart  from 
the  mass  of  his  productions.  It  simplifies  the  view 

[*] 


PREFACE 

and  makes  it  easier  to  feel  the  distinctive  qualities 
of  his  work.  To  this  end  I  hope  the  present  selection 
may  serve.  It  has  a  hundred  and  thirty -six  selec- 
tions from  all  the  fields  of  Tennyson's  poetry,  ex- 
cept the  dramas,  from  which  it  was  impossible  to 
detach  representative  scenes.  But  some  of  the  inci- 
dental lyrics  are  given. 

II.  The  second  volume  contains  a  series  of 
"Studies  in  Tennyson,  "written  at  different  times, 
and  now  revised,  enlarged,  and  reprinted.  The 
doing  of  this  revision  has  been  a  curious  experience. 
I  find  that  the  youthful  enthusiasm  of  my  first  pas- 
sion for  his  work  has  cooled  a  little,  so  that  some 
of  the  expressions  of  it  need  to  be  moderated.  But 
my  conviction  of  his  lofty  rank  as  a  poet  has  not 
changed  except  to  grow  stronger.  And  the  impres- 
sion of  his  personality,  so  large  and  noble,  so 
manly,  strong,  and  free,  so  vigorously  alive  to  all 
the  manifold  aspects  of  human  life,  so  firm  in  his 
loyalties  and  liberal  in  his  sympathies,  so  great  a 
lover  of  nature,  humanity,  and  God, — that  vivid 
impression  has  not  faded  but  deepened,  since  last 
I  saw  him  in  those  late  summer  days  at  Aldworth, 
twenty-seven  years  ago. 

In  the  long  interval  what  vast  mutations  have 
passed  upon  the  surface  of  earthly  things ! 

"What  hideous  warfare  hath  been  waged, 
What  kingdoms  overthrown  /" 


PREFACE 

But  the  immortal  realm  in  which  Tennyson  was 
a  servant  and  a  master  has  not  been  shaken.  Liv- 
ing now,  he  would  be  singing  as  he  sang  then, — 
true  to  nature,  true  to  art,  and  true  to  the  highest 
faith  that  is  in  man. 

Real  poetry  has  no  date.  It  springs  from  a  mo- 
ment of  vivid  experience  in  time.  But  it  passes,  in 
great  things  or  in  little  things,  into  that  imperish- 
able region  where  everything  has  its  meaning  to 
the  imagination  and  the  heart. 

Tennyson  was  a  great  man  of  the  Victorian  Age. 
His  poetry  is  one  of  the  enduring  treasures  of  Eng- 
lish literature. 

HENRY  VAN  DYKE. 

AVALON,  Oct.  1,  1919. 


[xii] 


CONTENTS 

INTRODUCTION 
i.  TENNYSON'S   PLACE   IN   THE  NINETEENTH 

CENTURY  xix 

II.    AN    OUTLINE    OF   TENNYSON^S    LIFE  XXV 

in.  TENNYSON'S  USE  OF  HIS  SOURCES  xliii 

iv.  TENNYSON'S  REVISION  OF  HIS  TEXT  Ixiii 

V.    THE  CLASSIFICATION  OF  TENNYSON^S  POEMS      Ixxix 
VI.    THE    QUALITIES    OF   TENNYSON*S    POETRY         Ixxxvi 

POEMS 

I.  MELODIES   AND   PICTURES 

Claribel  3 

Song  4 

The  Throstle  5 

Far  —  Far  — Away  5 

"Move  eastward,  happy  earth"  6 

The  Snowdrop  7 

A  Farewell  7 
SONGS  FROM  THE  PRINCESS 

The  Little  Grave  8 

"Sweet  and  low"  8 

The  Bugle  Song  9 

"Tears,  idle  tears"  10 

The  Swallow's  Message  11 

The  Battle  12 

"Sweet,  my  child,  I  live  for  thee"  12 

"Ask  me  no  more"  13 


[  xiii  ] 


CONTENTS 

PA.GI 

SONGS  FROM  OTHER  POEMS 

The  Song  of  the  Brook  13 

Cradle-Song  15 

Mother-Song  16 

Enid's  Song  17 

Vivien's  Song  17 

Elaine's  Song  18 

Milking-Song  18 

The  Queen's  Song  19 

Duet  of  Henry  and  Rosamund  20 

Ode  to  Memory  21 

The  Beggar  Maid  25 

Recollections  of  the  Arabian  Nights  26 

The  Daisy  31 

Early  Spring  35 

The  Dying  Swan  38 

The  Eagle  39 

The  Oak  40 

The  Sea-Fairies  40 

The  Lotos-Eaters  42 

Isabel  49 

Mariana  50 

A  Dream  of  Fair  Women  53 

Sir  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guinevere  64 

II,  BALLADS,  IDYLS,  AND  CHARACTER-PIECES 
BALLADS 

The  Lady  of  Shalott  69 

The  May  Queen  75 

In  the  Children's  Hospital  85 

The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade  90 

The  Charge  of  the  Heavy  Brigade  at  Balaclava  92 

The  Revenge  95 

[xiv] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

ENGLISH  IDYLS 

The  Gardener's  Daughter  103 

Dora  112 
CHARACTER-PIECES 

a;  none  119 

Ulysses  128 

Tithonus  130 

Lucretius  133 

St.  Agnes'  Eve  142 

Sir  Galahad  144 

Northern  Farmer.  Old  Style  14T 

Northern  Farmer.  New  Style  151 

Locksley  Hall  156 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere  169 

Selections  from  Maud;  a  Monodrama  172 

Rizpah  188 

III.  SELECTIONS    FROM    EPIC    POEMS 

The  Princess,  Book  VII  197 

Guinevere  207 

Morte  d' Arthur  230 

IV.  PERSONAL    AND    PHILOSOPHIC    POEMS 

OF  THE  POET  AND  His  ART 

The  Poet  243 

The  Poet's  Song  245 

To-  245 

The  Palace  of  Art  246 

Merlin  and  The  Gleam  258 

'Prater  Ave  atque  Vale'  263 

To  Virgil  263 

Milton  265 

Uv] 


CONTENTS 

FAGX 

OF  PATRIOTISM 

"Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights"  966 

England  and  America  in  1782  267 

To  the  Queen  268 

Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington  969 
OF  THE  LIFE  OF  THE  SPIRIT 

The  Vision  of  Sin  J79 

The  Ancient  Sage  J88 

"Flower  in  the  crannied  wall"  298 

The  Higher  Pantheism  298 

Will  299 

Wages  800 

The  Deserted  House  301 

"Break,  break,  break"  802 

In  the  Valley  of  Cauteretz  302 

Selections  from  In  Memoriam  303 

Prefatory  Poem  to  my  Brother's  Sonnets  337 

Vastness  339 

Crossing  the  Bar  342 


INTRODUCTION 


INTRODUCTION 

I 
TENNYSON'S  PLACE  IN  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

"The  voice  of  him  the  master  and  the  sire 
Of  one  whole  age  and  legion  of  the  lyre, 
Who  sang  his  morning-song  when  Coleridge  still 
Uttered  dark  oracles  from  Highgate  Hill, 
And  with  new  launclied  argosies  of  rhyme 
Gilds  and  makes  brave  this  sombreing  tide  of  time. 

To  him  nor  tender  nor  heroic  muse 
Did  her  divine  confederacy  refuse: 
To  all  its  moods  the  lyre  of  life  he  strung, 
And  notes  of  death  fell  deathless  from  his  tongue, 
Himself  the  Merlin  of  his  magic  strain, 
He  bade  old  glories  break  in  bloom  again; 
And  so,  exempted  from  oblivious  gloom, 
Through  him  these  days  shall  fadeless  break  in 
bloom."  WILLIAM  WATSON,  1892. 

1  ENNYSON  seems  to  us,  at  the  beginning  of  the 
Twentieth  Century,  the  most  representative  poet  of 
the  English-speaking  world  in  the  Nineteenth  Cen- 
tury. Indeed  it  is  doubtful  whether  any  other  writer 
during  the  last  hundred  years  has  reflected,  so  clearly 
and  so  broadly,  in  verse  or  prose,  the  features  of  that 
composite  age.  The  history  of  its  aspirations  and  con- 
flicts, its  dreams  and  disappointments,  its  aesthetic  re- 
vivals and  scientific  discoveries,  its  questioning  spirit 
in  religion  and  its  dogmatic  spirit  in  practical  affairs, 


INTRODUCTION 

its  curious  learning  and  social  enthusiasms  and  mili- 
tary reactions,  its  ethical  earnestness,  and  its  ever 
deepening  and  broadening  human  sympathy,  may  be 
read  in  the  poetry  of  Tennyson. 

Other  poets  may  reflect  some  particular  feature  of 
the  century  more  fully,  but  it  is  because  they  reflect 
it  more  exclusively.  Thus  Byron  stands  for  the  spirit 
of  revolt  against  tyranny,  Shelley  for  the  dream  of 
universal  brotherhood,  Keats  for  the  passionate  love 
of  pure  beauty,  Matthew  Arnold  for  the  sadness  of 
parting  with  ancient  faiths,  Robert  Browning  for  the 
spirit  of  scientific  curiosity  and  the  restless  impulse  of 
action,  and  Rudyard  Kipling  expresses  the  last  phase 
of  the  century,  the  revival  of  militant  imperialism, 
perhaps  as  well  as  it  can  be  uttered  in  verse. 

Wordsworth,  indeed,  has  a  more  general  range,  at 
least  of  meditative  sympathy,  and  his  work  has  there- 
fore a  broader  significance.  But  his  range  of  imagi- 
native sympathy,  the  sphere  within  which  he  feels 
intensely  and  speaks  vividly,  is  limited  by  his  own 
individuality,  deep,  strong,  unyielding,  and  by  his  se- 
cluded life  among  the  mountains  of  Westmoreland. 
When  he  moves  along  his  own  line  his  work  shines 
with  a  singular  and  unclouded  lustre;  at  other  times 
his  genius  fails  to  penetrate  his  material  with  the  light 
of  poesy.  Much  of  his  verse,  serious  and  sincere,  repre- 
sents Wordsworth's  reflections  upon  life,  rather  than 
the  reflection  of  life  in  Wordsworth's  poetry.  In  the 
metrical  art,  too,  perfect  as  he  is  in  certain  forms, 
such  as  the  sonnet,  the  simple  lyric,  the  stately  ode, 
his  mastery  is  far  from  wide.  In  narrative  poetry  he 
seldom  moves  with  swiftness  or  certainty;  in  the  use 
[xx  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

of  dramatic  motives  to  intensify  a  lyric,  a  ballad,  an 
idyl,  he  has  little  skill. 

But  Tennyson,  at  least  in  the  maturity  of  his  pow- 
ers, has  not  only  a  singularly  receptive  and  respon- 
sive mind,  open  on  all  sides  to  impressions  from  na- 
ture, from  books,  and  from  human  life  around  him, 
and  an  imaginative  sympathy,  which  makes  itself 
at  home  and  works  dramatically  in  an  extraordinary 
range  of  characters :  he  has  also  a  wonderful  mastery 
of  the  technics  of  the  poetic  art,  which  enables  him 
to  give  back  in  a  fitting  form  of  beauty  the  subject 
which  his  genius  has  taken  into  itself.  No  other  Eng- 
lish poet  since  the  Elizabethan  age  has  used  so  many 
kinds  of  verse  so  well.  None  other  has  shown  in  his 
work  a  sensitiveness  to  the  movements  of  his  own  time 
at  once  so  delicate  and  so  broad.  To  none  other  has 
it  been  given  to  write  with  undimmed  eye  and  undi- 
minished  strength  for  so  long  a  period  of  time,  and 
thus  to  translate  into  poetry  so  many  of  the  thoughts 
and  feelings  of  the  century  in  which  he  lived. 

Whether  a  temperament  so  receptive,  and  an  art 
so  versatile,  as  Tennyson's,  are  characteristic  of  the 
highest  order  of  genius,  is  an  open  question,  which 
it  is  not  necessary  to  decide  nor  even  to  discuss  here. 
Certainly  it  would  be  absurd  to  maintain  that  his  suc- 
cess in  dealing  with  all  subjects  and  in  all  forms  of 
verse  is  equal.  His  dramas,  for  instance,  do  not  stand 
in  the  first  rank.  His  two  epics,  The  Princess  and 
Idylls  of  the  King,  have  serious  defects,  the  one  in 
structure,  the  other  in  substance. 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  the  broad  scope  of  his 
poetic  interest  and  the  variety  as  well  as  the  general 


INTRODUCTION 

felicity  of  his  art,  helped  to  make  him  the  most  popu-- 
lar  poet  of  his  time  and  race.  Tennyson  has  something 
for  everybody.  He  is  easy  to  read.  He  has  charm. 
Thus  he  has  found  a  wide  audience,  and  his  poetry 
has  not  only  reflected,  but  powerfully  influenced,  the 
movements  of  his  age.  The  poet  whose  words  are 
quoted  is  a  constant,  secret  guide  of  sentiment  and 
conduct.  The  man  who  says  a  thing  first  may  be  more 
original;  he  who  says  it  best  is  more  potent.  The 
characters  which  Tennyson  embodied  in  his  verse  be- 
came memorable.  The  ideals  which  he  expressed  in 
music  grew  more  clear  and  beautiful  and  familiar  to 
the  hearts  of  men,  leading  them  insensibly  forward. 
The  main  current  of  thought  and  feeling  in  the  Nine- 
teenth Century,  at  least  among  the  English-speaking 
peoples, — the  slow,  steady,  onward  current  of  admira- 
tion, desire,  hope,  aspiration,  and  endeavour, — follows 
the  line  which  is  traced  in  the  poetry  of  Tennyson. 

Now  it  is  just  this  broad  scope,  this  rich  variety, 
this  complex  character  of  Tennyson's  work  which 
make  it  representative;  and  precisely  this  is  what  a 
book  of  selections  cannot  be  expected  to  show  com- 
pletely. For  this,  one  must  read  all  the  twenty-six 
volumes  which  he  published, — lyrical  poems,  ballads, 
English  idyls,  elegiac  poems,  war-songs,  love-songs, 
dramas,  poems  of  art,  classical  imitations,  dramatic 
monologues,  patriotic  poems,  idylls  of  chivalry,  fairy 
tales,  character  studies,  odes,  religious  meditations, 
and  rhapsodies  of  faith. 

After  such  a  reading  it  is  natural  to  ask :  How  much 
of  this  large  body  of  verse,  so  representative  in  its 
total  effect,  is  permanent  in  its  poetic  value?  How 
[  xxii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

much  of  it,  apart  from  the  interest  which  it  has  for 
the  student  of  literary  history,  has  a  direct  and  inti- 
mate charm,  a  charm  which  is  likely  to  be  lasting, 
for  the  simple  lover  of  poetry,  the  reader  who  turns 
to  verse  not  chiefly  for  an  increase  of  knowledge,  but 
for  a  gift  of  pure  pleasure  and  vital  power?  How  much 
of  it  is  characterized  by  those  qualities  which  distin- 
guish Tennyson  at  his  best,  signed,  as  \ve  may  say, 
not  merely  with  his  name  but  with  the  mark  of  his 
individuality  as  an  artist,  and  so  entitled  to  a  place 
in  his  personal  contribution  to  the  art  of  poetry? 

A  volume  of  selections  from  Tennyson  such  as  I 
have  attempted  here,  must  be  made  along  the  gen- 
eral lines  to  which  these  questions  point.  I  do  not 
suppose  that  it  would  be  possible  to  make  a  book  of 
this  kind  which  should  include  all  that  every  admirer 
of  Tennyson  would  like  to  find  in  it.  There  are  fine 
passages  in  the  dramas,  for  instance,  which  cannot 
well  be  taken  out  of  their  contexts.  In  choosing  a  few 
of  the  connected  lyrics  which  are  woven  together  in 
the  symphony  of  In  Memoriam,  one  feels  a  sense  of 
regret  at  the  necessity  of  leaving  out  other  lyrics 
almost  as  rich  in  melody  and  meaning,  almost  as  es- 
sential to  the  full  harmony  of  the  poem.  The  under- 
lying unity,  the  epical  interest,  of  Idylls  of  the  King 
cannot  be  shown  by  giving  two  of  them,  even  though 
those  two  be  the  strongest  in  substance  and  the  no- 
blest in  style. 

But  after  all,  making  due  allowance  for  the  neces- 
sary limitations,  the  inevitable  omissions,  which  every 
educated  person  understands,  I  venture  to  hope  that 
the  selections  in  this  volume  fairly  present  the  mate- 
[  xxiii  J 


INTRODUCTION 

rial  for  a  study  of  Tennyson's  method  and  manner  as 
a  poet,  and  an  appreciation  of  that  which  is  best  in 
the  central  body  of  his  poetic  work.  Here,  if  I  am  not 
mistaken,  the  reader  will  find  those  of  his  poems 
which  best  endure  the  test  of  comparison  with  classic 
and  permanent  standards.  Here,  also,  is  a  book  of 
verse  which  is  pervaded,  as  a  whole,  by  a  certain  real 
charm  of  feeling  and  expression,  and  which  may  be 
confidently  offered  to  those  gentle  persons  who  like 
to  read  poetry  for  its  own  sake.  And  here,  I  am  quite 
sure,  is  a  selection  from  the  mass  of  Tennyson's  writ- 
ings which  includes  at  least  enough  of  his  most  char- 
acteristic work  to  illustrate  the  growth  of  his  mind, 
to  disclose  the  development  of  his  art,  and  to  make 
every  reader  feel  the  vital  and  personal  qualities 
which  distinguish  his  poetry. 


[  xxiv 


INTRODUCTION 

II 

AN    OUTLINE    OF   TENNYSON^S    LIFE 

"  BrotJier  of  the  greatest  poets,  true  to  nature,  true  to  art. 
Lover  of  Immortal  Love,  uplifter  of  the  human  heart ! 
Who  shall  cheer  us  with  high  music,  rvho  shall  sing  if 
thou  depart?"  IN  LUCEM  TRANSITUS,  1892. 

PARENTAGE  AND  BIRTH. — Alfred  Tennyson  was  born 
on  the  6th  of  August,  1809,  at  Somersby,  a  little 
village  in  Lincolnshire.  He  was  the  fourth  child  in 
a  family  of  twelve,  eight  boys  and  four  girls,  all  of 
whom  but  two  lived  to  pass  the  limit  of  three  score 
years  and  ten.  The  stock  was  a  strong  one,  probably 
of  Danish  origin,  but  with  a  mingled  strain  of  Nor- 
man blood  through  the  old  family  of  d'Eyncourt,  both 
branches  of  which,  according  to  Burke's  Peerage,  are 
represented  by  the  Tennysons. 

The  poet's  father,  the  Rev.  Dr.  George  Clayton 
Tennyson,  was  rector  of  Somersby  and  Wood  En- 
derby.  His  wife,  Elizabeth  Fytche,  was  the  daughter 
of  the  vicar  of  Louth,  a  neighbouring  town.  Dr.  Ten- 
nyson was  the  eldest  son  of  a  lawyer  of  considerable 
wealth,  but  was  disinherited,  by  some  caprice  of  his 
father,  in  favour  of  a  younger  brother.  The  rector  of 
Somersby  was  a  man  of  large  frame,  vigourous  mind, 
and  variable  temper.  He  had  considerable  learning, 
of  a  broad  kind,  and  his  scholarship,  if  not  profound, 
was  practical,  for  he  taught  his  sons  the  best  of  what 
they  knew  before  they  entered  the  university.  A  great 
lover  of  music  and  architecture,  fond  of  writing  verse, 
genial  and  brilliant  in  social  intercourse,  excitable, 


INTRODUCTION 

warm-hearted,  stern  in  discipline,  generous  in  sym- 
pathy, he  was  a  personality  of  overflowing  power;  but 
at  times  he  was  subject  to  fits  of  profound  depression 
and  gloom,  in  which  the  memory  of  his  father's  un- 
kindness  darkened  his  mind,  and  he  seemed  almost 
to  lose  himself  in  bitter  and  despondent  moods.  Mrs. 
Tennyson  was  a  gentle,  loving,  happy  character,  by 
no  means  lacking  in  strength,  but  excelling  in  ten- 
derness, ardent  in  feeling,  vivid  in  imagination,  fer- 
vent in  faith.  It  is  said  that  "the  wicked  inhabitants 
of  a  neighbouring  village  used  to  bring  their  dogs  to 
her  window's  and  beat  them,  in  order  to  be  bribed 
to  leave  off  by  the  gentle  lady,  or  to  make  advan- 
tageous bargains  by  selling  her  the  worthless  curs." 
Her  son  Alfred  drew  her  portrait  lovingly  in  the 
poem  called  "Isabel"  (p.  49)  and  in  the  closing  lines 
of  The  Princess  (p.  206). 

Not  learned,  save  in  gracious  household  ways, 
Not  perfect,  nay,  but  full  of  tender  wants, 
No  Angel,  but  a  dearer  being,  all  dipt 
In  Angel  instincts,  breathing  Paradise, 
Interpreter  between  the  gods  and  men, 
Who  look'd  all  native  to  her  place,  and  yet 
On  tiptoe  seem'd  to  touch  upon  a  sphere 
Too  gross  to  tread,  and  all  male  minds  perforce 
Sway'd  to  her  from  their  orbits  as  they  moved, 
And  girdled  her  with  music. 

The  poet's  reverent  and  loyal  love  for  his  father  is 
expressed  in  the  lines  "To  J.  S."  Both  parents  saw 
in  their  child  the  promise  of  genius,  and  hoped  great 
things  from  him. 

[  xxvi  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

THE  IMITATIVE  IMPULSE. — The  boy  grew  up,  if  not 
precisely  in  Milton's  "quiet  and  still  air  of  delightful 
studies/'  yet  in  an  atmosphere  that  was  full  of  stimu- 
lus for  the  imagination  and  favourable  to  the  unfold- 
ing of  lively  powers  of  thought  and  feeling.  It  was 
an  obscure  hamlet  of  less  than  a  hundred  inhabitants 
where  the  Tennysons  resided,  but  it  was  a  full  home 
in  which  they  lived, — full  of  children,  full  of  books, 
full  of  music,  full  of  fanciful  games  and  pastimes,  full 
of  human  interests,  full  of  life.  The  scenery  about 
Somersby  is  friendly  and  consoling;  gray  hills  softly 
sloping  against  the  sky;  wide-branching  elms,  trem- 
bling poplars,  and  drooping  ash-trees;  rich  gardens, 
close-embowered,  full  of  trailing  roses,  crowned  lilies, 
and  purple-spiked  lavender;  long  ridges  of  pasture 
land  where  the  thick-fleeced  sheep  are  herded;  clear 
brooks  purling  over  ribbed  sand  and  golden  gravel, 
with  many  a  curve  and  turn;  broad  horizons,  low- 
hung  clouds,  mellow  sunlight ;  birds  a  plenty,  flowers 
profuse.  All  these  sweet  forms  Nature  printed  on  the 
boy's  mind.  Every  summer  brought  a  strong  contrast, 
when  the  family  went  to  spend  their  holiday  in  a 
cottage  close  beside  the  sea,  on  the  coast  of  Lincoln- 
shire, among  the  tussocked  ridges  of  the  sand-dunes, 
looking  out  upon 

The  hollow  ocean-ridges,  roaring  into  cataracts. 

The  boy  had  an  intense  passion  for  the  sea,  and 
learned  to  know  all  its  moods  and  aspects.  "Some- 
how," he  said,  later  in  life,  "  water  is  the  element  I 
love  best  of  all  the  four." 

When  he  was  seven  years  old  he  was  sent  to  the 
[  xxvii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

house  of  his  grandmother  at  Louth,  to  attend  the 
grammar-school.  But  it  was  a  hard  school  with  a  rough 
master,  and  the  boy  hated  it.  After  three  years  he 
came  home  to  continue  his  studies  under  his  father. 

His  closest  comrade  in  the  home  was  his  brother 
Charles,  a  year  older  than  himself.  (See  In  Memoriam, 
Ixxix,  and  "Prefatory  Poem  to  My  Brother's  Son- 
nets/' p.  337.)  The  two  lads  had  many  tastes  in  com- 
mon, especially  their  love  of  poetry.  They  read  widely, 
and  offered  the  sincerest  tribute  of  admiration  to  their 
favourite  bards.  Alfred's  first  attempt  at  writing  verse 
was  made  when  he  was  eight  years  old.  He  covered 
two  sides  of  a  slate  with  lines  in  praise  of  flowers,  in 
imitation  of  Thomson,  the  only  poet  whom  he  then 
knew.  A  little  later  Pope's  Iliad  fascinated  him,  and 
he  produced  many  hundreds  of  lines  in  the  same  style 
and  metre.  At  twelve  he  took  Scott  for  his  model, 
and  turned  out  an  epic  of  six  thousand  lines.  Then 
Byron  became  his  idol.  He  wrote  lyrics  full  of  gloom 
and  grief,  a  romantic  drama  in  blank  verse,  and  imi- 
tations of  the  Hebrew  Melodies. 

Some  of  the  fruitage  of  these  young  labours  may 
be  seen  in  the  volume  entitled  Poems  by  Two  Brothers, 
which  was  published  anonymously  by  Charles  and 
Alfred  Tennyson,  at  Louth,  in  1 827,  and  republished 
in  1893,  with  an  effort  to  assign  the  pieces  to  their 
respective  authors,  by  the  poet's  son,  the  present  Lord 
Tennyson.  The  motto  on  the  title-page  of  the  plump, 
modest  little  volume  is  from  Martial :  Hcec  nos  novimus 
esse  nihil.  It  is  because  of  this  knowledge  that  the  book 
has  value  as  a  document  in  the  history  of  Tennyson's 
development.  It  shows  a  receptive  mind,  a  quick, 
[  xxviii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

immature  fancy,  and  considerable  fluency  and  variety 
in  the  use  of  metre.  It  marks  a  distinct  stage  of  his 
growth, — the  period  when  his  strongest  poetic  im- 
pulse was  imitative. 

THE  ESTHETIC  IMPULSE.  —  In  1828  Tennyson,  with  his 
brother  Charles,  entered  Trinity  College,  Cambridge. 
Almost  from  the  beginning  he  was  a  marked  man  in 
the  undergraduate  world.  His  personal  appearance  was 
striking.  Tall, large-limbed, deep-chested;  with  a  noble 
head  and  abundance  of  dark,  wavy  hair;  large,  brown 
eyes,  dreamy,  yet  bright;  swarthy  complexion  ("al- 
most like  a  gypsy,"  said  Mrs.  Carlyle);  and  a  profile 
like  a  face  on  a  Roman  coin;  he  gave  the  immediate 
impression  of  rare  gifts  and  power  in  reserve.  "I  re- 
member him  well,"  wrote  Edward  Fitzgerald,  "a  sort 
of  Hyperion."  His  natural  shyness  and  habits  of  soli- 
tude kept  him  from  making  many  acquaintances,  but 
his  friends  were  among  the  best  and  most  brilliant  men 
in  the  University:  Richard  Monckton  Milnes,  Richard 
Chenevix  Trench,  W.  H.  Brookfield,  John  Mitchell 
Kemble,  James  Spedding,  Henry  Alford,  Charles  Bul- 
ler,  Charles  Merivale,  W.  H.  Thompson,  and  most 
intimate  of  all,  Arthur  Henry  Hallam.  This  was  an 
extraordinary  circle  of  youths;  distinguished  for  schol- 
arship, wit,  eloquence,  freedom  of  thought ;  promising 
great  things,  which  most  of  them  achieved.  Among 
these  men  Tennyson's  strength  of  mind  and  character 
was  recognized,  but  most  of  all  they  were  proud  of 
him  as  a  coming  poet.  In  their  college  rooms,  with  an 
applauding  audience  around  him,  he  would  chant  in 
his  deep,  sonorous  voice  such  early  poems  as  "The 
Hesperides,"  "Oriana,"  "The  Lover's  Tale." 
[xxix  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

He  did  not  neglect  his  studies,  the  classics,  history, 
and  the  natural  sciences;  but  his  general  reading  meant 
more  to  him.  He  was  a  member  of  an  inner  circle  called 
the  "  Apostles," a  society  devoted  to  'religion  and  radi- 
calism.' (See  In  Memoriam,  Ixxxvii.}  The  new  spirit, 
represented  in  literature  by  Coleridge,  Wordsworth, 
Shelley,  Keats,  took  possession  of  him.  He  went  back 
to  the  Elizabethan  age,  to  Milton's  early  poems,  as  the 
fountain-heads  of  English  lyrical  poetry.  Not  now  as 
an  imitator,  but  as  a  kindred  artist,  he  gave  himself 
to  the  search  for  beauty,  freedom,  delicate  truth  to 
nature,  romantic  charm. 

His  poem  of  "Timbuctoo,"  which  won  the  Chan- 
cellor's gold  medal  in  1829,  was  only  a  working-over 
of  an  earlier  poem  on  "The  Battle  of  Armageddon," 
and  he  thought  little  of  it.  But  in  1830  he  published 
a  slender  volume  entitled  Poems,  Chiefly  Lyrical,  which 
shows  the  quality  of  his  work  in  this  period  when  the 
aesthetic  impulse  was  dominant  in  him.  Ten  of  these 
poems  are  among  the  selections  in  this  book.  They  are 
marked  by  freshness  of  fancy,  melody  of  metre,  vivid 
descriptive  touches,  and  above  all  by  what  Arthur  Hal- 
lam,  in  his  thoughtful  review  of  the  volume,  called  "a 
strange  earnestness  in  his  worship  of  beauty." 

In  the  summer  of  1830,  Hallam  and  Tennyson  made 
a  journey  together  to  the  Pyrenees,  to  carry  some  funds 
which  had  been  raised  in  England  to  the  Spanish  in- 
surgents who  were  fighting  for  liberty.  Tennyson  was 
not  in  sympathy  with  the  conservatism  which  then,  as 
in  Wordsworth's  day,  made  Cambridge  seem  narrow 
and  dry  and  heartless  to  men  of  free  and  ardent  spirit. 
In  1831  the  illness  and  death  of  his  father  made  it 
[  xxx  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

necessary  for  him  to  leave  college  and  go  home  to  live 
with  the  family  at  Somersby,  where  he  remained  for 
six  years.  In  1832  he  published  his  second  volume  of 
Poems,  dated  1833. 

The  tone  and  quality  of  this  volume  are  the  same 
that  we  find  in  its  predecessor,  but  the  manner  is 
firmer,  stronger,  more  assured.  There  is  also  a  warmer 
human  interest  in  such  poems  as"The  Miller's  Daugh- 
ter" and  "The  May  Queen";  and  in  "The  Palace  of 
Art"  there  is  a  distinct  intimation  that  the  purely 
aesthetic  period  of  his  poetic  development  is  nearly  at 
an  end.  Six  of  these  poems  are  among  the  selections 
in  this  book. 

The  criticism  which  these  two  volumes  received, 
outside  of  the  small  circle  of  Tennyson's  friends  and 
admirers,  was  severe  and  scornful.  Blackwood's  Maga- 
zine called  the  poet  the  pet  of  a  Cockney  coterie,  and 
said  that  some  of  his  lyrics  were  "dismal  drivel."  The 
Quarterly  Review  sneered  at  him  as  "  another  and  a 
brighter  star  of  that  galaxy  or  milky  way  of  poetry,  of 
which  the  lamented  Keats  was  the  harbinger."  Tenny- 
son felt  this  contemptuous  treatment  deeply.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  the  English  people  would  never  like  his 
work.  His  aesthetic  period  closed  in  gloom  and  dis- 
couragement. 

THE  RELIGIOUS  AND  PERSONAL  IMPULSE. — But  far 
heavier  than  any  literary  disappointment  was  the  blow 
that  fell  in  1833  when  his  dearest  friend,  Arthur  Hal- 
lam,  to  whom  his  sister  Emilia  was  promised  in  mar- 
riage, died  suddenly  in  Vienna.  This  great  loss,  com- 
ing to  Tennyson  at  a  time  when  the  first  joy  of  youth 
was  already  overcast  by  clouds  of  loneliness  and 
[  xxxi  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

despondency,  was  the  wind  of  destiny  that  drove  him 
from  the  pleasant  harbour  of  dreams  out  upon  the  wide, 
strange,  uncharted  sea  of  spiritual  strife  and  sorrow, 
— the  sea  which  seems  so  bitter  and  so  wild,  but  on 
whose  farther  shore  those  who  bravely  make  the  voy- 
age find  freedom  and  security  and  peace  and  the  gen- 
erous joy  of  a  larger,  nobler  life.  The  problems  of  doubt 
and  faith  which  had  been  worked  out  with  abstract 
arguments  and  fine  theories  in  the  Apostles'  society  at 
Cambridge,  now  became  personal  problems  for  Tenny- 
son. He  must  face  them  and  find  some  answer,  if  his 
life  was  to  have  a  deep  and  enduring  harmony  in  it, 
— a  harmony  in  which  the  discords  of  fear  and  self- 
will  and  despair  would  dissolve.  The  true  answer,  he 
felt  sure,  could  never  be  found  in  selfish  isolation.  The 
very  intensity  of  his  grief  purified  it  as  by  fire,  made 
it  more  humane,  more  sympathetic.  His  conflict  with 
"the  spectres  of  the  mind"  was  not  for  himself  alone, 
but  for  others  who  must  wrestle  as  he  did,  with  sor- 
row and  doubt  and  death.  The  deep  significance,  the 
poignant  verity,  the  visionary  mystery  of  human  ex- 
istence in  all  its  varied  forms,  pressed  upon  him.  Like 
the  Lady  of  Shalott  in  his  own  ballad,  he  turned  from 
the  lucid  mirror  of  fantasy,  the  magic  web  of  art,  to 
the  real  world  of  living  joy  and  grief.  But  it  was  not 
a  curse,  like  that  which  followed  her  departure  from 
her  cloistered  tower,  that  came  upon  the  poet,  drawn 
and  driven  from  the  tranquil,  shadowy  region  of  ex- 
quisite melodies  and  beautiful  pictures.  It  was  a  bless- 
ing :  the  blessing  of  clearer,  stronger  thought,  deeper, 
broader  feeling,  more  power  to  understand  the  world 
and  more  energy  to  move  it. 

[  xxxii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

Tennyson's  personal  sorrow  for  the  loss  of  Hallara  is 
expressed  in  the  two  lyrics,  "Break,  break,  break  "  and 
"In  the  Valley  of  Cauteretz"  (/>.  302),  poems  which 
should  always  be  read  together  as  the  cry  of  grief  and 
the  answer  of  consolation.  His  long  spiritual  struggle 
with  the  questions  of  despair  and  hope,  of  duty  and 
destiny,  which  were  brought  home  to  him  by  the  loss 
of  his  friend,  is  recorded  in  In  Memoriam.  The  poem 
was  begun  at  Somersby  in  1 833  and  continued  at  dif- 
ferent places  and  times,  as  the  interwoven  lyrics  show, 
for  nearly  sixteen  years.  Though  the  greater  part  of  it 
was  written  by  1842,  it  was  not  published  until  1850. 
Mr.  Gladstone  thought  it  "the  richest  oblation  ever 
offered  by  the  affection  of  friendship  at  the  tomb  of 
the  departed."  It  is  that  and  something  more:  it  is 
the  great  English  classic  on  the  love  of  immortality 
and  the  immortality  of  love.  Tennyson  said,  "  It  was 
meant  to  be  a  kind  of  Divina  Corn-media,  ending  with 
happiness."  The  central  thought  of  the  poem  is 

'T  is  better  to  have  loved  and  lost 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all. 

Wherein  it'  is  better  now,  and  why  the  poet  trusts  it 
will  be  better  still  in  the  long  future, — this  is  the 
vital  question  which  the  poem  answers  in  music. 

But  apart  from  these  lyrics  of  personal  grief,  and 
this  rich,  monumental  elegy,  there  are  other  poems 
of  Tennyson,  written  between  1 833  and  1 842,  which 
show  the  extraordinary  deepening  and  strengthening 
of  his  mind  during  this  period  of  inward  crisis.  For  ten 
years  he  published  no  book.  Living  with  his  mother  and 
sisters  at  Somersby,  at  High  Beech  in  Epping  Forest, 
[  xxxiii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

at  Tunbridge  Wells,  at  Boxley  near  Maidstone ;  caring 
for  the  family,  as  the  eldest  son  at  home,  and  skilfully 
managing  the  narrow  means  on  which  they,  had  to 
live ;  wandering  through  the  country  on  long  walking 
tours;  visiting  his  friends  in  London  now  and  then; 
falling  in  love  finally  and  forever  with  Miss  Emily  Sell- 
wood,  to  whom  he  became  engaged  in  1 836,  but  whom 
he  could  not  marry  yet  for  want  of  money;  he  held 
fast  to  his  vocation,  and  though  he  sometimes  doubted 
whether  the  world  would  give  him  a  hearing,  he  never 
wavered  in  his  conviction  that  his  mission  in  life  was 
to  be  a  poet.  The  years  of  silence  were  not  years  of 
indolence.  Here  is  a  memorandum  of  a  week's  work: 
"Monday,  History,  German.  Tuesday,  Chemistry,  Ger- 
man. Wednesday,  Botany,  German.  Thursday,  Electri- 
city, German.  Friday,  Animal  Physiology,  German.  Sat- 
urday, Mechanics.  Sunday,  Theology.  Next  week,  Italian 
in  the  afternoon.  Third  week,  Greek.  Evenings,  Poetry." 
Hundreds  of  lines  were  composed  and  never  written ; 
hundreds  more  were  written  and  burned.  So  far  from 
being  "an  artist  long  before  he  was  a  poet,"  as  Mr. 
R.  H.  Hutton  somewhat  vacuously  says  in  his  essay 
on  Tennyson,  he  toiled  terribly  to  make  himself  an 
artist,  because  he  knew  he  was  a  poet.  The  results  of 
this  toil,  in  the  revision  of  those  of  his  early  poems 
which  he  thought  worthy  to  survive,  and  in  the  new 
poems  which  he  was  ready  to  publish,  were  given  to 
the  world  in  the  two  volumes  of  1842. 

The  changes  in  the  early  poems  were  all  in  the  di- 
rection of  clearness,  simplicity,  a  stronger  human  in- 
terest. The  new  poems  included  "The  Vision  of  Sin," 
"Two  Voices,"  "Ulysses,"  "Morte  d' Arthur,"  the  con- 
[  xxxiv  ] 


INTKODUCTION 

elusion  of  "The  May  Queen,"  "Lady  Clara  Vere  de 
Vere,"  "Dora,"  "The  Gardener's  Daughter,"  "Locks- 
ley  HalL"  "St.  Agnes'  Eve,"  "Sir  Galahad."  With  the 
appearance  of  these  two  volumes,  Tennyson  began  to 
be  a  popular  poet.  But  he  did  not  lose  his  hold  upon  the 
elect,  the ' fit  audience,  though  few.'  The  Quarterly  Re- 
view, The  Westminster  Review,  Dickens,  Landor,  Rogers, 
Carlyle,  Edward  Fitzgerald,  Aubrey  de  Vere,  and  such 
men  in  England,  Hawthorne,  Emerson,  Lowell,  and 
Poe  in  America,  recognized  the  charm  and  the  power 
of  his  verse.  In  1845  Wordsworth  wrote  to  Henry  Reed 
of  Philadelphia,  "  Tennyson  is  decidedly  the  first  of 
our  living  poets,  and  I  hope  will  live  to  give  the  world 
still  better  things." 

Such  was  the  liberating  and  ennobling  effect  of  the 
deeper  personal  and  spiritual  impulse  which  came  into 
his  poetry  with  the  experience  of  sorrow  and  inward 
conflict. 

THE  SOCIAL  IMPULSE. — From  1842  onward  we  find  the 
poet,  now  better  known  to  the  world,  coming  into 
wider  and  closer  contact  with  the  general  life  of  men. 
Not  that  he  ever  lost  the  unconventional  freedom  of 
his  dress  and  manner,  the  independence  of  his  thought 
and  taste,  the  singular  frankness  (almost  brusquerie) 
of  his  talk,  which  was  like  thinking  aloud.  He  never 
became  what  is  called,  oddly  enough,  a  "society  man." 
He  was  incapable  of  roaring  gently  at  afternoon  teas 
or  literary  menageries.  He  was  unwilling  to  join  him- 
self to  any  party  in  politics  as  Dryden  and  Swift  and 
Addison,  or  even  as  Sou  they  and  Wordsworth,  had 
done.  But  he  had  a  sincere  love  for  genuine  human 
intercourse,  in  which  real  thoughts  and  feelings  are 
[  xxxv  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

uttered  by  real  people  who  have  something  to  say  to 
one  another;  a  vivid  sense  of  the  humourous  aspects 
of  life  (shown  in  such  poems  as  the  two  pictures  of 
the  "Northern  Farmer/'  "The  Spinster's  Sweet-Arts," 
"The  Church-Warden");  and  a  broad  interest  in  the 
vital  questions  and  the  popular  movements  of  his  time. 
If  I  am  not  mistaken,  this  period  when  his  poetry  be- 
gan to  make  a  wider  appeal  to  the  people  is  marked 
by  the  presence  of  a  new  impulse  in  his  work.  We  may 
call  it,  for  the  sake  of  a  name,  the  social  impulse, 
meaning  thereby  that  the  poet  now  looks  more  often 
at  his  work  in  its  relation  to  the  general  current  of 
human  affairs  and  turns  to  themes  which  have  a  place 
in  public  attention. 

There  was  also  at  this  time  an  attempt  on  Tenny- 
son's part  to  engage  in  business,  which  turned  out  to 
be  a  disastrous  mistake.  He  was  induced  to  go  into  an 
enterprise  for  the  carving  of  wood  by  machinery.  Into 
this  he  put  all  his  capital ;  and  some  of  the  small  pat- 
rimony of  his  brothers  and  sisters  was  embarked  in 
the  same  doubtful  craft.  In  1 843  the  ship  went  down 
with  all  its  lading,  and  the  Tennysons  found  them- 
selves on  the  coast  of  actual  poverty.  To  add  to  this 
misfortune,  the  poet's  health  gave  way  completely, 
and  he  was  forced  to  spend  a  long  time  in  a  water- 
cure  establishment,  under  treatment  for  hypochondria. 

In  1846  the  grant  of  a  pension  of  £200  from  the 
Civil  List,  on  the  recommendation  of  Sir  Robert  Peel, 
cordially  approved  by  the  Queen,  relieved  the  pres- 
sure of  pecuniary  need  under  which  Tennyson  had 
been  left  by  the  failure  of  his  venture  in  wood.  In  1 847 
he  published,  perhaps  in  answer  to  the  demand  for  a 
[  xxxvi  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

longer  and  more  sustained  poem,  The  Princess;  A 
Medley.  It  is  an  epic,  complete  enough  in  structure, 
but  in  substance  half  serious  and  half  burlesque.  It 
tells  the  story  of  a  king's  daughter  who  was  fired  with 
the  ambition  to  emancipate,  (and  even  to  separate,) 
her  sex  from  man,  by  founding  a  woman's  college  ex- 
traordinary. This  design  was  crossed  by  the  efforts  of 
an  amourous,  chivalrous,  faintly  ridiculous  prince,  who 
wooed  her  under  difficulties  and  won  her  through  the 
pity  that  overcame  her  when  she  saw  him  wounded 
almost  to  death  by  her  brother.  The  central  theme  of 
the  poem  is  the  question  of  the  higher  education  of 
women,  but  the  style  moves  so  obliquely  in  its  mock 
heroics  that  it  is  hard  to  tell  whether  the  argument 
is  for  or  against.  The  diction  is  marked  by  Tennyson's 
two  most  frequent  faults,  over-decoration  and  indi- 
rectness of  utterance.  It  is  much  admired  by  girls  at 
boarding-school;  but  the  woman's  college  of  the  pre- 
sent day  does  not  regard  its  academic  programme  with 
favour.  The  poem  rises  at  the  close  to  a  very  sincere 
and  splendid  eloquence  in  praise  of  true  womanhood 
(see  p.  204).  The  intercalary  songs,  which  were  added 
in  1 850,  include  two  or  three  of  Tennyson's  best  lyrics. 
They  shine  like  jewels  in  a  setting  which  is  not  all 
of  pure  gold. 

In  1850  there  were  three  important  events  in  the 
poet's  life:  his  marriage  with  Miss  Emily  Sellwood; 
the  publication  of  the  long- laboured  In  Memoriam; 
and  his  appointment  as  Poet-Laureate,  to  succeed 
Wordsworth,  who  had  just  died.  The  three  events 
were  closely  connected.  It  was  the  £300  received  in 
advance  for  In  Memoriam  that  provided  a  financial 
[  xxxvii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

basis  for  the  marriage;  and  it  was  the  profound  ad- 
miration of  the  Prince  Consort  for  this  poem  that  de- 
termined the  choice  of  Tennyson  for  the  Laureateship. 
The  marriage  was  in  every  sense  happy.  The  poet's 
wife  was  not  only  of  a  nature  most  tender  and  beauti- 
ful; she  was  also  a  wise  counsellor,  a  steadfast  com- 
rade, as  he  wrote  of  her,— 

With  a  faith  as  clear  as  the  heights  of  the  June-blue  heaven, 

And  a  fancy  as  summer-new 

As  the  green  of  the  bracken  amid  the  glow  of  the  heather. 

Their  first  home  was  made  at  Twickenham,  and  here 
their  oldest  and  only  surviving  son,  Hallam,  was  born. 
In  1852  the  "Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wel- 
lington" was  published.  It  was  received  with  some 
disappointment  and  unfavourable  criticism  as  the  first 
production  of  the  Laureate  upon  an  important  public 
event.  But  later  and  wiser  critics  incline  to  the  opinion 
of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  who  thought  that  the  ode 
had  "never  been  surpassed  in  any  tongue  or  time."1 
In  1853,  increasing  returns  from  his  books  (about 
£500  a  year)  made  it  possible  for  Tennyson  to  lease, 
and  ultimately  to  buy,  the  house  and  small  estate  of 
Farringford,  near  the  village  of  Freshwater  on  the 
Isle  of  Wight.  It  is  a  low,  rambling,  unpretentious, 
gray  house,  tree-embowered,  ivy-mantled,  in  a 

careless-ordered  garden, 
Close  to  the  ridge  of  a  noble  down. 

His  other  home,  Aldworth,  near  the  summit  of  Black 
Down  in  Sussex,  was  not  built  until  1 868.  A  statelier 

i  Letters  of  R.  L.  Stevenson,  Vol.  I,  p.  220. 
[  xxxviii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

mansion,  though  less  picturesque,  its  attraction  as  a 
summer  home  lies  in  the  beauty  of  its  terraced  rose- 
garden,  the  far-reaching  view  which  it  commands  to 
the  south,  and  the  refreshing  purity  of  the  upland  air 
that  breathes  around  it. 

In  1854-  the  famous  poem  on  "The  Charge  of  the 
Light  Brigade  "  was  published  in  the  London  Examiner. 
It  was  included,  with  the  Wellington  Ode,  in  the  vol- 
ume entitled  Maud,  and  Other  Poems,  which  appeared 
in  the  following  year.  Maud  grew  out  of  the  dramatic 
lyric  beginning  "O  that 't  were  possible,"  in  The  Tri- 
bute, 1837  (p.  184).  Sir  John  Simeon  said  to  Tennyson 
that  something  more  was  needed  to  explain  the  story 
of  the  lyric.  He  then  unfolded  the  central  idea  in  a  suc- 
cession of  lyrics  in  which  the  imaginary  hero  reveals 
himself  and  the  tragedy  of  his  life.  The  sub-title  A 
Monodrama  was  added  in  1 875.  When  Tennyson  read 
the  poem  to  me  in  1892,  he  said  "It  is  dramatic, — 
the  story  of  a  man  who  has  a  touch  of  inherited  in- 
sanity, morbid  and  selfish.  The  poem  shows  what  love 
has  done  for  him.  The  war  is  only  an  episode."  This  is 
undoubtedly  true  and  just.  Yet  the  vigour  of  the  long 
invective  against  the  corruptions  of  a  selfish  peace, 
with  which  the  poem  opens,  and  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
patriotic  welcome  to  the  Crimean  war,  with  which  it 
closes,  show  something  of  the  way  in  which  the  poet's 
mind  was  working.  This  volume  together  with  The 
Princess  may  be  taken  as  an  illustration  of  the  force 
of  the  social  impulse  which  had  now  entered  into  Ten- 
nyson's poetry  to  cooperate  with  the  aesthetic  impulse 
and  the  religious  impulse  in  the  full  labours  of  his 
maturity. 

[  xxxix  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

MATURITY. — Tennyson  was  now  forty-five  years  old. 
But  there  still  lay  before  him  nearly  forty  years  in 
which  he  was  to  bring  forth  poetry  in  abundance,  a 
rich,  varied,  unfailing  harvest.  It  is  true  that  before 
this  wonderful  period  of  maturity  ended  there  were 
signs  of  age  visible  in  some  of  his  work, —  a  slacken- 
ing of  vigour,  an  uncertainty  of  touch,  a  tendency 
to  overload  his  verse  with  teaching,  a  failure  to  re- 
move the  traces  of  labour  from  his  art,  a  lack  of  cour- 
age and  sureness  in  self-criticism.  But  it  was  long  be- 
fore these  marks  of  decline  were  visible,  and  even 
then,  more  than  any  other  English  poet  at  an  equal 
age,  he  kept,  and  in  the  hours  of  happy  inspiration 
he  revealed,  the  quick  emotion,  the  vivid  sensibility, 
the  splendid  courage  of  a  heart  that  does  not  grow 
gray  with  years. 

In  1859  the  first  instalment  of  his  most  important 
epic,  Idylls  of  the  King,  appeared.  It  was  followed  in 
1869,  in  1872,  in  1885,  by  the  other  parts  of  the  com- 
plete poem.  In  1864  Enoch  Arden  was  published.  In 
1873  Queen  Mary,  the  first  of  the  dramas,  came  out, 
followed  by  Harold  in  1876,  and  The  Cup  and  The 
Falcon  and  Beeket  in  1884.  In  1880  Ballads,  and  Other 
Poems  contained  some  of  his  best  work,  such  as  "  Riz- 
pah,"  "The  Revenge,"  "In  the  Children's  Hospital." 
In  1885  Tiresias,  and  Other  Poems  appeared;  in  1886 
"Locksley  Hall  Sixty  Years  After" ;  in  1889  Demeter, 
and  Other  Poems,  including  "Romney's  Remorse," 
"Vastness,"  "The  Progress  of  Spring,"  "Merlin  and 
The  Gleam,"  "The  Oak,"  "The  Throstle,"  and  that 
supreme  lyric  which  Tennyson  wished  to  have  printed 
last  in  every  edition  of  his  collected  works, — "Cross- 
[  xl  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

ing  the  Bar."  In  1892  the  long  list  closed  with  The 
Death  of  (Enone,  Akbar's  Dream,  and  Other  Poems. 

The  life  of  the  man  who  was  producing,  after  mid- 
dle age,  this  great  body  of  poetry,  was  full,  rich,  and 
happy, — though  shadowed  by  the  death  of  his  son 
Lionel  on  the  voyage  home  from  India  in  1886.  Se- 
cluded, as  ever,  from  the  busyness  of  the  world,  but 
in  no  sense  separated  from  its  deeper  interests,  Tenny- 
son studied  and  wrought,  delighting  in  intercourse 
with  his  friends  and  in 

converse  with  all  forms 
Of  the  many-sided  mind, 
And  those  whom  passion  hath  not  blinded, 
Subtle-thoughted,  myriad-minded. 

In  1883  he  accepted  from  the  Queen  the  honour  of 
a  peerage  (a  baronetcy  had  been  offered  before  and 
refused),  and  was  gazetted  in  the  following  year  as 
Baron  of  Aldworth  and  Farringford.  For  himself,  he 
frankly  said,  the  dignity  was  one  that  he  did  not  de- 
sire; but  he  felt  that  he  could  not  let  his  reluctance 
stand  in  the  way  of  a  tribute  from  the  Throne  to  Lit- 
erature. When  he  entered  the  House  of  Lords  he 
took  his  seat  on  the  cross-benches,  showing  that  he 
did  not  wish  to  bind  himself  to  any  party.  His  first 
vote  was  cast  for  the  Extension  of  the  Franchise. 

At  the  close  of  August,  1892,  when  I  visited  him  at 
Aldworth,  he  was  already  beginning  to  feel  the  warn- 
ing touches  of  pain  which  preceded  his  last  illness. 
But  he  was  still  strong  and  mighty  in  spirit,  a  noble 
shape  of  manhood,  massive,  large-browed,  his  bronzed 
face  like  the  countenance  of  an  antique  seer,  his  scat- 


INTRODUCTION 

tered  locks  scarcely  touched  with  gray.  He  was  work- 
ing on  the  final  proofs  of  his  last  volume  and  planning 
new  poems.  At  table  his  talk  was  free,  friendly,  full 
of  humour  and  common-sense.  In  the  library  he  read 
from  his  poems  the  things  which  illustrated  the  sub- 
jects of  which  he  had  been  speaking,  passages  from 
Idylls  of  the  King,  some  of  the  songs,  the  "Northern 
Farmer  (New  Style)"  and,  more  fully,  Maud  and  the 
Wellington  Ode.  His  voice  was  deep,  rolling,  reso- 
nant. It  sank  to  a  note  of  tenderness,  touched  with 
prophetic  solemnity,  as  he  read  the  last  lines  of  the 
ode:  — 

Speak  no  more  of  his  renown, 
Lay  your  earthly  fancies  down, 
And  in  the  vast  cathedral  leave  him, 
God  accept  him,  Christ  receive  him. 

On  the  6th  of  October,  1 892,  between  one  and  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  with  the  splendours  of  the 
full  moon  pouring  in  through  the  windows  of  the  room 
where  his  family  were  watching  by  his  bed,  he  passed 
into  the  world  of  light.  His  body  was  laid  to  rest  on 
the  12th  of  October,  in  Westminster  Abbey,  next 
to  the  grave  of  Robert  Browning,  and  close  beside 
the  monument  of  Chaucer.  The  mighty  multitude  of 
mourners  assembled  at  the  funeral, — scholars,  states- 
men, nobles,  veterans  of  the  Light  Brigade,  poor  boys 
of  the  Gordon  Home, — told  how  widely  and  deeply 
Tennyson  had  moved  the  hearts  of  all  sorts  and  con- 
ditions of  men  by  his  poetry,  which  was,  in  effect, 
his  life. 


C  xlH 


INTRODUCTION 

III 

TENNYSON'S  USE  OF  HIS  SOURCES 

Ein  Quidam  sagt,  "  Ich  bin  von  keiner  Schule! 
Kein  Meixter  lebt  mil  dem  ich  buhle; 
Audi  bin  ich  writ  davon  entfernt, 
Das  ich  von  Todten  nets  gelenit." 
Das  heisst,  tvenn  ich  ihn  recht  verstand; 
"Ich  bin  ein  Narr  auf  eigne  Hand." 

GOETHE. 

EMERSON  was  of  the  same  opinion  as  Goethe  in  re- 
gard to  originality.  Writing  of  Shakespeare  he  says, 
"The  greatest  genius  is  the  most  indebted  man,"  and 
defends  the  poet's  right  to  take  his  material  wherever 
he  can  find  it.  Shakespeare  certainly  exercised  large 
liberty  in  that  respect  and  did  not  even  trouble  him- 
self to  look  for  a  defence.  Wordsworth  wrote,  "Multa 
tulit  fecitque  must  be  the  motto  of  all  those  who  are 
to  last."  Most  of  the  men  whom  the  world  calls  great 
in  poetry  have  drawn  freely  from  the  sources  which 
are  open  to  all,  not  only  in  nature,  but  also  in  the  lit- 
erature of  the  past,  and  in  the  thoughts  and  feelings 
of  men  around  them, — the  inchoate  literature  of  the 
present. 

From  all  these  sources  Tennyson  took  what  he 
could  make  his  own,  and  used  it  to  enrich  his  verse. 
The  gold  thus  gathered  was  not  all  new-mined ;  some 
of  it  had  passed  through  other  hands;  but  it  was  all 
new-minted, — fused  in  his  imagination  and  fashioned 
into  forms  bearing  the  mark  of  his  own  genius.  My 
object  in  the  present  writing  is  to  give  some  idea  of 

[  xliii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

the  way  in  which  he  collected  his  material  and  the 
method  by  which  he  wrought  it  into  poetry. 

( 1 .)  With  nature  Tennyson  dealt  at  first  hand.  A  sen- 
sitive, patient,  joyful  observer,  he  watched  the  clouds, 
the  waters,  the  trees,  the  flowers,  the  birds,  for  new 
disclosures  of  their  beauty,  new  suggestions  of  their 
symbolic  relation  to  the  life  of  man.  In  a  letter  writ- 
ten to  Mr.  Dawson  of  Montreal,  commenting  upon 
the  statement  that  certain  lines  of  natural  description 
in  his  work  were  suggested  by  something  in  Words- 
worth or  Shelley,  he  demurs,  with  perceptible  warmth, 
and  goes  on  to  say:  "There  was  a  period  in  my  life 
when,  as  an  artist,  Turner  for  instance,  takes  rough 
sketches  of  landskip,  etc.,  in  order  to  work  them  even- 
tually into  some  great  picture,  so  I  was  in  the  habit 
of  chronicling,  in  four  or  five  words  or  more,  what- 
ever might  strike  me  as  picturesque  in  nature.  I  never 
put  these  down,  and  many  and  many  a  line  has  gone 
away  on  the  north  wind,  but  some  remain."  Then  he 
gives  some  illustrations,  among  them, 

A  full  sea  glazed  wilh  -muffled  moonlight, 

which  was  suggested  by  a  night  at  Torquay,  when 
the  sky  was  covered  with  thin  vapour.  The  line  was 
'  afterwards  embodied  in  The  Princess  (i,  244). 

But  in  saying  that  he  never  wrote  these  observa- 
tions down,  the  poet  misremembers  his  own  custom; 
for  his  note-books  contain  many  luminous  fragments 
of  recorded  vision,  like  the  following :  — 

(Babbicombe.}  Like  serpent-coils  upon  the  deep. 
(Bonchurch.}  A  little  salt  pool  fluttering  round  a  stone 
upon  the  shore.  ("Guinevere,"  /.  50.) 
[  xliv  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

(The  river  Shannon,  on  the  rapids.}  Ledges  of  battling 

water. 
(Cornwall.}  Sea  purple  and  green  like  a  peacock's  neck. 

(See  "The  Daisy/'  p.  32.) 
(Voyage  to  Norway.}  One  great  wave,  green-shining 

past  with  all  its  crests  smoking  high  up  beside  the 

vessel. 

This  last  passage  is  transformed,  in  "Lancelot  and 
Elaine,"  into  a  splendid  simile: — 
They  couch' d  their  spears  and  prick 'd  their  steeds,  and  thus, 
Their  plumes  driv'n  backward  by  the  wind  they  made 
In  moving,  all  together  down  upon  him 
Bare,  as  a  wild  wave  in  the  wide  North-sea, 
Green-glimmering  toward  the  summit,  bears,  with  all 
Its  stormy  crests  that  smoke  against  the  skies, 
Down  on  a  bark,  and  overbears  the  bark, 
And  him  that  helms  it,  so  they  overbore 
Sir  Lancelot  and  his  charger. 

Tennyson  was  always  fond  of  travel,  and  from  all 
his  journeys  he  brought  back  jewels  which  we  find 
embedded  here  and  there  in  his  verse.  The  echoes  in 
"The  Bugle  Song"  (p.  9)  were  heard  on  the  Lakes 
of  Killarney  in  1842.  The  Silver  Horns  of  the  Alps 
and  the  "wreaths  of  dangling  water-smoke,"  in  the 
"small  sweet  idyl"  from  The  Princess  (/>.  201),  were 
seen  at  Lauterbrunnen  in  1846.  In  "CEnone"  (p.  126), 

My  tall  dark  pines  that  plumed  the  craggy  ledge 
High  over  the  blue  gorge,  and  all  between 
The  snowy  peak  and  snow-white  cataract, 

were  sketched  in  the  Pyrenees  in  1830.  In  the  first 
edition  of  the  poem  he  brought  in  a  beautiful  species 


INTRODUCTION 

of  cicala,  with  scarlet  wings,  which  he  saw  on  his  Span- 
ish journey ;  though  he  was  conscientious  enough  to 
add  a  footnote  explaining  that  "probably  nothing  of 
the  kind  exists  in  Mount  Ida." 

It  is  true  that  in  later  editions  he  let  the  cicala  and 
the  note  go;  but  this  example  will  serve  to  illustrate 
the  defect,  or  at  least  the  danger,  which  attends  Ten- 
nyson's method  of  working  up  his  pictures.  There  is 
a  temptation  to  introduce  too  many  details  from  the 
remembered  or  recorded  "rough  sketches/'  to  crowd 
the  canvas,  to  use  bits  of  description  which,  however 
beautiful  in  themselves,  do  not  always  add  to  the 
strength  of  the  picture,  and  sometimes  even  give  it  an 
air  of  distracting  splendour.  Ornateness  is  a  fault  from 
which  Tennyson  is  not  free.  In  spite  of  his  careful  re- 
vision there  are  still  some  red-winged  cicalas  left  in 
his  verse.  There  are  passages  in  The  Princess,  in  "Enoch 
Arden,"  and  in  some  of  the  Idylls  of  the  King,  for  ex- 
ample, which  are  bewildering  in  their  opulence. 

But  on  the  other  hand  it  must  be  said  that  very  often 
this  richness  of  detail  is  precisely  the  effect  which  he 
wishes  to  produce,  and  in  certain  poems,  like  "  Recol- 
lections of  the  Arabian  Nights"  (p.  26),  "The  Lotos- 
Eaters"  (p.  42),  and  "The  Palace  of  Art"  (p.  246),  it 
enhances  the  mystical,  dream-like  atmosphere  in  which 
the  subject  is  conceived.  If  he  sometimes  puts  in  too 
many  touches,  he  seldom,  if  ever,  makes  use  of  any 
that  is  not  in  harmony  with  the  fundamental  tone,  the 
colour-key  of  his  picture.  Notice  the  accumulation  of 
dark  images  of  loneliness  and  desertion  in  "Mariana" 
(p.  50),  the  cold,  gray  sadness  and  weariness  of  the 
landscape  in"The  Dying  Swan"  (p.  38),and  the  serene 
[  xlvi  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

rapture  that  clothes  the  earth  with  emerald  and  the 
sea  with  sapphire  in  the  song  of  triumph  and  love  in 
Maud,  I.  xviii  (p.  176). 

There  are  passages  in  Tennyson's  verse  where  his 
direct  vision  of  nature  is  illumined  by  his  memory  of 
the  things  that  other  poets  have  written  when  looking 
at  the  same  scene.  Thus  "Prater  Ave  atque  Vale" 
(p.  263)  is  filled,  as  it  should  be,  with  touches  from 
Catullus.  But  how  delicate  is  the  art  with  which  they 
are  blended  and  harmonized,  how  exquisite  the  shim- 
mer of  the  argent-leaved  orchards  which  Tennyson 
adds  in  the  last  line, 

Sweet  Catullus  s  all-but-island,  olive-silvery  Sirmio! 

In  "The  Daisy"  (a  series  of  pictures  from  an  Italian 
journey  made  with  his  wife  in  1851,  recalled  to  the 
poet's  memoryby  finding,  between  the  leaves  of  a  book 
which  he  was  reading  in  Edinburgh,  a  daisy  plucked 
on  the  Spliigen  Pass),  we  find  literary  and  historical 
reminiscences  interwoven  with  descriptions.  At  Cogo- 
letto  he  remembers  the  young  Columbus  who  was  born 
there.  On  Lake  Como,  which  Virgil  praised  in  the 
Georgics,  he  recalls 

The  rich  Firgilian  rustic  measure 
Of  Lari  Maxume,  all  the  way, 

At  Varenna  the  story  of  Queen  Theodolind  comes  back 
to  him.  There  are  critics  who  profess  to  regard  such 
allusions  and  reminiscences  as  indicating  a  lack  of 
originality  in  a  poet.  But  why  ?  Tennyson  saw  Italy  not 
with  the  eyes  of  a  peasant,  but  with  the  enlarged  and 
sensitive  vision  of  a  scholar.  The  associations  of  the 
[  xlvii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

past  entered  into  his  perception  of  the  spirit  of  place. 
New  colours  glowed  on 

tower,  or  high  kill-convent,  seen 
A  light  amid  its  olives  green; 

Or  olive-hoary  cape  in  ocean; 
Or  rosy  blossom  in  hot  ravine, 

because  he  remembered  the  great  things  that  had  been 
done  and  suffered  in  the  land  through  which  he  was 
passing.  Is  not  the  landscape  of  imagination  as  real  as 
the  landscape  of  optics?  Must  a  man  be  ignorant  in 
order  to  be  original?  Is  true  poetry  possible  only  to 
him  who  looks  at  nature  with  a  mind  as  bare  as  if  he 
had  never  opened  a  book  ?  Milton  did  not  think  so. 

Tennyson's  use  of  nature  as  the  great  source  of  poetic 
images  and  figures  was  for  the  most  part  immediate 
and  direct;  but  often  his  vision  was  quickened  and 
broadened  by  memories  of  what  the  great  poets  had 
seen  and  sung.  Yet  when  he  borrowed,  here  and  there, 
a  phrase,  an  epithet,  from  one  of  them,  it  was  never 
done  blindly  or  carelessly.  He  always  verified  his  re- 
ferences to  nature.  The  phrase  borrowed  is  sure  to  be 
a  true  one,  chosen  with  a  delicate  feeling  for  the  best, 
translated  with  unfailing  skill,  and  enhanced  in  beauty 
and  significance  by  the  setting  which  he  gives  to  it. 

(2.)  For  subjects,  plots,  and  illustrations  Tennyson 
turned  often  to  the  literature  of  the  past.  His  range 
of  reading,  even  in  boyhood,  was  wide  and  various,  as 
the  notes  to  Poems  by  Two  Brothers  show.  At  the  Uni- 
versity he  was  not  only  a  close  student  of  the  Greek 
and  Latin  classics,  but  a  diligent  reader  of  the  English 
poets  and  philosophers,  and  a  fair  Italian  scholar.  In 
[  xlviii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

the  years  after  he  left  college  we  find  him  studying 
Spanish  and  German.  In  later  life  he  kept  up  his  stud- 
ies with  undiminished  ardour.  In  1854  he  was  learning 
Persian,  translating  Homer  and  Virgil  to  his  wife,  and 
reading  Dante  with  her.  In  1 867  he  was  working  over 
Job,  The  Song  of  Solomon,  and  Genesis,  in  Hebrew.  He 
takes  the  themes  of  "The  Lotos-Eaters"  and  "The 
Sea-Fairies"  from  Homer;  "The  Death  of  CEnone" 
from  Quintus  Calaber;  "Tiresias"  from  Euripides; 
"Tithonus"  from  an  Homeric  Hymn;  "Demeter"  and 
"CEnone"  from  Ovid;  "Lucretius"  from  St.  Jerome; 
"St.  Simeon  Stylites"  and  "St.  Telemachus"  from 
Theodoret;  "The  Cup"  from  Plutarch;  "A  Dream  of 
Fair  Women"  from  Chaucer;  "Mariana"  from  Shake- 
speare; "The  Lover's  Tale"  and  "The  Falcon"  from 
Boccaccio;  "Ulysses"  from  Dante;  "The  Revenge" 
from  Sir  Walter  Raleigh;  "The  Brook"  from  Goethe; 
"The  Voyage  of  Maeldune"  from  Joyce's  Old  Celtic 
Romances;  "Akbar's  Dream"  from  the  Persian,  and 
"Locksley  Hall"  from  the  Arabic;  "Romney's  Re- 
morse" from  Hayden's  Life  of  Romney;  "Columbus" 
from  Washington  Irving.  In  the  Idylls  of  the  King  he 
has  drawn  upon  Sir  Thomas  Malory,  the  Mabinogion 
of  Lady  Charlotte  Guest,  and  the  old  French  ro- 
mances. His  allusions  and  references  to  the.  Bible  are 
many  and  beautiful.  (See  The  Poetry  of  Tennyson, 
p.  245,  and  Appendix.)  But  he  never  wrote  a  whole 
poem  upon  a  scriptural  subject,  except  a  couple  of 
Byronic  imitations  in  Poems  by  Two  Brothers. 

To  understand  his  method  of  using  a  subject  taken 
from  literature  it  may  be  well  \p  study  a  few  examples. 

The  germ  of  "Ulysses"  (p.  128)  is  found  in  the 
[  xlix  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

following  passage  from  Dante's  Inferno,  xxvi,  90-129, 
where,  in  the  eighth  Bolgia,  Ulysses  addresses  the 
two  poets:  — 

"  When  I  escaped 

From  Circe,  wlio  beyond  a  circling  year 
Had  held  me  near  Caieta  by  her  charms, 
Ere  thus  JEneas  yet  had  named  the  share; 
Nor  fondness  for  my  son,  nor  reverence 
Of  my  old  father,  nor  return  of  love, 
That  should  have  crown  d  Penelope  with  joy, 
Could  overcome  in  me  the  zeal  I  had 
To  explore  the  world,  and  search  the  ways  of  life. 
Mans  evil  and  his  virtue.  Forth  I sail'd 
Into  the  deep  illimitable  main, 
With  bid  one  bark,  and  the  small  faithful  band 
That  yet  cleaved  to  me.  As  Iberia  far, 
Far  as  Morocco,  either  shore  I  saw, 
And  the  Sardinian  and  each  isle  beside 
Which  round  that  ocean  bathes.  Tardy  with  age 
Were  I  and  my  companions,  when  we  came 
To  the  strait  pass,  where  Hercules  ordain  d 
The  boundaries  not  be  overstepp'd  by  man. 
The  walls  of  Seville  to  my  right  I  left, 
On  the  other  hand  already  Ceuta  passed. 
'Oh  brothers!'  I  began,  'who  to  the  west 
Through  perils  without  number  now  have  reach' d; 
To  this  the  short  remaining  watch,  that  yet 
Our  senses  have  to  wake,  refuse  not  proof 
Of  the  unpeopled  world,  following  the.  track 
Of  Phoebus.  Call  to  mind  from  whence  ye  sprang. 
Ye  were  not  form' d  Jo  live  the  life  of  brutes, 
But  virtue  to  pursue  and  knowledge  high.' 

[1] 


INTRODUCTION 

With  these  few  words  I  sharpen  d  for  the  voyage 
The  mind  of  my  associates,  that  I  then 
Could  scarcely  have  withheld  them.  To  the  dawn 
Our  poop  we  turnd,  and  for  the  witless  jlight 
Made  our  oars  wings,  still  gaining  on  the  left. 
Each  star  of  the  other  pole  night  now  beheld, 
And  ours  so  low,  that  from  the  ocean  Jloor 
It  rose  not."  l 

The  central  motive  of  the  poem  is  undoubtedly  con- 
tained in  this  passage:  the  ardent  longing  for  action, 
for  experience,  for  brave  adventure,  persisting  in 
Ulysses  to  the  very  end  of  life.  This  Tennyson  ren- 
ders in  his  poem  with  absolute  fidelity.  But  he  departs 
from  the  original  in  several  points.  First,  he  makes 
the  poem  a  dramatic  monologue,  or  character-piece, 
spoken  by  Ulysses  at  Ithaca  to  his  old  companions. 
Second,  he  intensifies  the  dramatic  contrast  between 
the  quiet  narrow  existence  on  the  island  (//.  1-5; 
33-43)  and  the  free,  joyous,  perilous  life  for  which 
Ulysses  longs  (//.  11-32).  Third,  he  adds  glimpses  of 
natural  sceneryin  wonderful  harmony  with  the  spirit  of 
the  poem  (//.  2,  44,  45,  54-6l).  Fourth,  he  brings  out 
with  extraordinary  vividness  the  feeling  which  he  tells 
us  was  in  his  own  heart  when  he  wrote  the  poem,  "the 
need  of  going  forward  and  braving  the  struggle  of  life." 
Naturally  enough  many  phrases  are  used  which  re- 
call classic  writers.  "The  rainy  Hyades"  belong  to 
Virgil;  the  rowers  "sitting  well  in  order,"  to  Homer. 
To  "rust  unburnish'd"  (/.  23)  is  an  improved  echo  from 
the  speech  of  Shakespeare's  Ulysses  in  Troilus  and 
Cressida.  All  this  adds  to  the  vraisemblance  of  the  poem, 
l  Gary's  Translation  (1806). 


INTRODUCTION 

It  is  the  art  by  which  the  poet  evokes  in  our  minds 
the  associations  with  which  literature  has  surrounded 
the  figure  of  Ulysses,  a  distinct  personality,  an  endur- 
ing type  in  the  world  of  imagination.  The  proof  of  the 
poet's  strength  lies  in  his  ability  to  meet  the  test  of 
comparison  between  his  own  work  and  that  classic 
background  of  which  his  allusions  frankly  remind  us, 
and  in  his  power  to  add  something  new,  vivid,  and  in- 
dividual to  the  picture  which  has  been  painted  from 
so  many  different  points  of  view  by  the  greatest  artists. 
This  test,  it  seems  to  me,  Tennyson  endures  magnifi- 
cently. His  Ulysses  is  not  unworthy  to  rank  with  the 
wanderer  of  Homer,  of  Dante,  of  Shakespeare.  No  lines 
of  theirs  are  larger  than  Tennyson's: — 

Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  wherethro' 

Gleams  that  untravell'd  world  whose  margin  fades 

For  ever  and  for  ever  when  I  move. 

Nor  has  any  poet  embodied  "the  unconquerable  mind 
of  man"  more  nobly  than  in  the  final  lines  of  this 
poem :  — 

Tho'  much  is  taken,  much  abides ;  and  tho' 

We  are  not  now  that  strength  which  in  old  days 

Mov'd  earth  and  heaven;  that  which  we  are,  we  are; — 

One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts, 

Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but  strong  in  will 

To  strive,  to  seek,  tojind,  and  not  to  yield. 

A  poem  of  very  different  character  is  "A  Dream  of 
Fair  Women"  (p.  53),  written  when  the  aesthetic  im- 
pulse was  strongest  in  Tennyson.  The  suggestion  came 
from  Chaucer's  Legend  of  Good  Women.  How  full  and 


INTRODUCTION 

deep  and  nobly  melancholy  are  the  chords  with  which 
Tennyson  enriches  the  dream-music  to  which  Chaucer's 
poem  gives  the  key-note:  — 

In  every  land 

I  saw,  wherever  light  illuminelh, 
Beauty  and  anguish  walking  hand  in  hand 
The  downward  slope  to  death. 

Those  far-renowned  brides  of  ancient  song 
Peopled  the  hollow  dark,  like  burning  stars, 

And  I  heard  sounds  of  insult,  shame,  and  tvrong, 
And  trumpets  blown  for  wars. 

Then  follows  a  passage  full  of  fresh  and  exquisite  de- 
scriptions of  nature,  the  scenery  of  his  dream. 

Enormous  elm-tree-boles  did  stoop  and  lean 
Upon  the  dusky  brushwood  underneath 

Their  broad  curved  branches,  Jledged  with  clearest  green, 
New  from  its  silken  sheath. 

I  knew  the  flowers,  I  knew  the  leaves,  I  knew 
The  tearful  glimmer  of  the  languid  danm 

On  those  long,  rank,  dark  wood-walks  drench' d  in  dew, 
Leading  from  lawn  to  lawn. 

The  smell  of  violets,  hidden  in  the  green, 
Pour  d  back  into  my  empty  soul  and  frame 

The  times  when  I  remember  to  have  been 
Joyful  and  free  from  blame. 

This  is  Tennyson's  own  manner,  recognizable,  imi- 
table,but  not  easily  equalled.  Now  come  the  fairwomen 
who  people  his  visionary  forest.  Each  one  speaks  to 

C  li"  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

him  and  reveals  herself  by  the  lyric  disclosure  of  her 
story.  Only  in  one  case — that  of  Rosamond — does  the 
speaker  utter  her  name.  In  all  the  others,  it  is  by  some 
touch  of  description  made  familiar  to  us  by  "ancient 
song/'  that  the  figure  is  recognized.  Iphigenia  tells 
how  she  stood  before  the  altar  in  Aulis,  and  saw  her 
sorrowing  father,  and  the  waiting  ships,  and  the  crowd 
around  her,  and  the  knife  which  was  to  shed  the  vic- 
tim's blood.  (Lucretius,  De  Rerum  Natura,  i,  85  Jf.) 
Cleopatra  recalls  the  nights  of  revelry  with  Mark  An- 
tony (Shakespeare,  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  Act  i,  sc.  iv), 
his  wild  love  (Act  iv,  sc.  viii),  her  queenly  suicide,  robed 
and  crowned,  with  the  bite  of  the  aspic  on  her  breast 
(Act  v,  sc.  it).  Jephtha's  Daughter  repeats  the  song 
with  which  she  celebrated  Israel's  victory  over  Ammon 
(Judges,  xi).  The  dream  rounds  itself  into  royal  splen- 
dour, glittering  with  gems  from  legend  and  poetry: 
then  it  fades,  never  to  be  repeated, — 

How  eagerly  I  sought  to  strike 
Into  that  wondrous  track  of  dreams  again! 
But  no  two  dreams  are  like. 

Yet  another  type  of  subject  taken  from  literature 
is  found  in  "Dora"  (p.  112).  Mr.  J.  Churton  Collins 
says:  "The  whole  plot  ...  to  the  minutest  details  is 
taken  from  a  prose  story  of  Miss  Mitford's.  .  .  .  That 
the  poet's  indebtedness  to  the  novel  has  not  been  in- 
timated, is  due  no  doubt  to  the  fact  that  Tennyson, 
like  Gray,  leaves  his  commentators  to  track  him  to 
his  raw  material."  *  To  understand  the  carelessness 

1  /.  Churton  Collins,  Illustrations  of  Tennyson.  Chatto  and 
Windus,  1891. 

[liv  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

of  Mr.  Collins  as  a  critic  it  is  only  necessary  to  point 
out  the  fact  that  the  reference  to  Miss  Mitford's  story 
was  distinctly  given  in  a  note  to  the  first  edition  of 
the  poem  in  1842.  But  to  appreciate  fully  the  bold 
inaccuracy  of  his  general  statement  one  needs  to  read 
the  pastoral  of  "Dora  Creswell,"  in  Our  Village,  side 
by  side  with  Tennyson's  "Dora."  In  Miss  Mitford's 
story  Dora  is  a  little  girl;  in  Tennyson's  poem  she  is 
a  young  woman.  Miss  Mitford  tells  nothing  of  the 
conflict  between  the  old  farmer  and  his  son  about 
the  proposed  marriage  with  Dora ;  Tennyson  makes  it 
prominent  in  the  working  out  of  the  plot.  Miss  Mit- 
ford makes  the  son  marry  the  delicate  daughter  of  a 
school-mistress;  but  in  Tennyson's  poem  his  choice 
falls  on  Mary  Morrison,  a  labourer's  daughter,  and,  as 
the  poem  implies,  a  vigourous,  healthy,  independent 
girl.  In  Miss  Mitford's  story  there  is  no  trace  of  Dora's 
expulsion  from  the  old  farmer's  house  after  she  has 
succeeded,  by  a  stratagem,  in  making  him  receive  his 
little  grandson,  Mary's  child;  but  Tennyson  makes 
this  the  turning  point  of  the  most  pathetic  part  of 
his  poem,  —  Dora's  winning  of  Mary's  love,  and  their 
resolve  that  they  will  live  together  and  bring  up  the 
child  free  from  the  influence  of  the  old  farmer's  hard- 
ness. When  the  old  man  at  last  gives  way,  and  takes 
Mary  and  Dora  and  the  child  home,  Tennyson  adds 
the  final  touch  of  insight  to  the  little  drama:  — 

So  those  four  abode 

Within  one  house  together;  and  as  years 
Went  forward  Mary  took  another  mate; 
But  Dora  lived  unmarried  till  her  death. 

[  Iv  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

The  entire  poem  is  written  in  the  simplest  lan- 
guage. It  does  not  contain  a  single  simile,  nor  a  word 
used  in  an  unfamiliar  sense.  Wordsworth  said,  "Mr. 
Tennyson,  I  have  been  endeavouring  all  my  life  to 
write  a  pastoral  like  your  'Dora/  and  have  not  suc- 
ceeded." The  contrast  between  the  prose  story  with 
its  abundance  of  pretty  details,  and  the  poem  in 
beauty  unadorned,  illustrates  the  difference  between 
neat  work  and  fine  work. 

The  vivifying  power  of  Tennyson's  imagination  is 
nowhere  shown  more  clearly  than  in  the  great  use 
which  he  makes  of  comparatively  small  hints  and 
phrases  from  other  writers.  In  his  hands  they  seem  to 
expand.  They  are  lifted  up,  animated,  ennobled. 

A  good  illustration  of  this  kind  of  work  may  be 
seen  in  the  way  in  which  he  handles  the  material 
taken  from  Sir  Thomas  Malory  in  the  Morte  d' Arthur. 
In  Malory  the  King's  rebuke  to  the  unfaithful  knight 
runs  thus:  "Ah,  traitor  untrue,  now  hast  thou  be- 
trayed me  twice.  Who  would  have  weened  that,  thou 
that  hast  been  to  me  so  lief  and  dear?  And  thou  art 
named  a  noble  knight,  and  would  betray  me  for  the 
richness  of  the  sword!"  In  Tennyson  a  new  dramatic 
splendour  enters  into  the  reproach: — 

'Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
Unknightly,  traitor-hearted!  Woe  is  me! 
Authority  forgets  a  dying  king, 
Laid  widow  d  of  the  power  in  his  eye 
That  bowd  the  will.  I  see  thee  what  thou  art, 
For  thou,  the  latest-left  of  all  my  knights, 
In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all, 


INTRODUCTION 

Thou  rvouldst  betray  me  for  the  precious  hilt; 

Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl 

Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 

Yet,  for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice, 

And  the  third  time  may  prosper,  get  thee  hence: 

But,  if  thou  spare  to  Jling  Excalibur, 

I  will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my  hands.' 

In  Malory  the  King's  parting  address,  spoken  from 
the  barge,  is:  "Comfort  thyself,  and  do  as  well  as 
thou  may'st,  for  in  me  is  no  trust  for  to  trust  in;  for  I 
will  into  the  vale  of  Avilion  to  heal  me  of  my  griev- 
ous wound :  and  if  thou  hear  never  more  of  me  pray 
for  my  soul."  In  Tennyson  these  few  words  become 
the  germ  of  the  great  passage  beginning 

'  The  old  order  changelh,  yielding  place  to  new, 
And  God  fulfils  himself  in  many  ways, 
Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the  world,'  — 

and  closing  with  one  of  the  noblest  utterances  in  re- 
gard to  prayer  that  can  be  found  in  the  world's  liter- 
ature. 

Malory  says,  "  And  as  soon  as  Sir  Bedivere  had  lost 
the  sight  of  the  barge,  he  wept  and  wailed,  and  so 
took  the  forest."  Tennyson  makes  us  see  the  dark 
vessel  moving  away:  — 

The  barge  with  oar  and  sail 

Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full-breasted  swan 
That,  fluting  a  wild  carol  ere  her  death, 
Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes  the  flood 
With  swarthy  webs.  Long  stood  Sir  Bedivere 
Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 

[  Ivii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

Look'd  one  black  dot  against  the  verge  of  dawn, 
And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away. 

The  difference  here  is  between  the  seed  of  poetry 
and  the  flower  fully  unfolded. 

Instances  of  the  same  enlarging  and  transforming 
power  of  Tennyson's  genius  may  be  noted  in  "The 
Revenge."  Again  and  again  he  takes  a  bare  fact  given 
by  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  or  Froude,  and  makes  it  flash 
a  sudden  lightning  or  roar  a  majestic  thunder  through 
the  smoke  of  the  wild  sea-fight.  (See  vi-xi,  pp.  97- 
100.)  The  whole  poem  is  scrupulously  exact  in  its 
fidelity  to  the  historical  records,  but  it  lifts  the  story 
on  strong  wings  into  the  realm  of  vivid  imagination. 
We  do  not  merely  hear  about  it:  we  see  it,  we  feel 
it. 

Another  illustration  is  found  in  "The  Lotos-Eaters," 
lines  156-167  (p.  48).  This  is  expanded  from  Lucre- 
tius, De  Rerum  Natura,  Hi,  15.  "The  divinity  of  the 
gods  is  revealed,  and  their  tranquil  abodes  which 
neither  winds  do  shake,  nor  clouds  drench  with  rains, 
nor  snow  congealed  by  sharp  frosts,  harms  with  hoary 
fall:  an  ever  cloudless  ether  over-canopies  them,  and 
they  laugh  with  light  shed  largely  round.  Nature  too 
supplies  all  their  wants,  and  nothing  ever  impairs 
their  peace  of  mind."  But  the  vivid  contrast  between 
this  luxurious  state  of  dolce  far  niente  and  the  troubles, 
toils,  and  conflicts  of  human  life,  is  added  by  Tenny- 
son, and  gives  a  new  significance  to  the  passage. 

We  come  now  to  Tennyson's  use  of  the  raw  mate- 
rial lying  close  at  hand,  as  yet  untouched  by  the  shap- 
ing spirit  of  literature, — newspaper  stories,  speeches, 

[  Iviii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

tales  of  the  country-side,  legends  and  phrases  pass- 
ing from  lip  to  lip,  suggestions  from  conversations 
and  letters.  He  was  quick  to  see  the  value  of  things 
that  came  to  him  in  this  way,  and  at  the  same  time, 
as  a  rule,  most  clear  in  his  discrimination  between 
that  which  was  merely  interesting  or  striking,  and  that 
which  was  available  for  the  purposes  of  poetry,  and 
more  particularly  of  such  poetry  as  he  could  write.  He 
did  not  often  make  Wordsworth's  mistake  of  choos- 
ing themes  in  themselves  trivial  like  "Alice  Fell,"  or 
"Goody  Blake,"  or  themes  involving  an  incongruous 
and  ridiculous  element,  like  "Peter  Bell"  or  "The 
Idiot  Boy."  If  the  subject  was  one  that  had  a  hu- 
mourous aspect,  he  gave  play  to  his  sense  of  humour 
in  treating  it.  If  it  was  serious,  he  handled  it  in  a 
tragic  or  in  a  pathetic  way,  according  to  the  depth 
of  feeling  which  it  naturally  involved.  Illustrations  of 
these  different  methods  may  easily  be  found  among 
his  poems. 

The  "Northern  Farmer  (Old  Style)"  was  suggested 
by  a  story  which  his  great-uncle  told  him  about  a 
Lincolnshire  farm-bailiff  who  said,  when  he  was  dy- 
ing, "God  A'mighty  little  knows  what  He's  aboot, 
a-takin'  me,  an'  'Squire '11  be  so  mad  an'  all!"  From 
this  saying,  Tennyson  declares,  he  conjectured  the 
whole  man,  depicted  as  he  is  with  healthy  vigour 
and  kindly  humour.  It  was  the  remark  of  a  rich  neigh- 
bour, "When  I  canters  my  'erse  along  the  ramper  L 
'ears  proputty,  proputty,  proputty,"  that  suggested  the 
contrasting  character-piece,  the  "Northern  Farmer 
(New  Style)."  The  poem  called  "The  Church- Warden 
and  the  Curate "  was  made  out  of  a  story  told  to  the 


INTRODUCTION 

poet  by  the  Rev.  H.  D.  Rawnsley.1  "The  Grandmo- 
ther" was  suggested  in  a  letter  from  Benjamin  Jow- 
ett  giving  the  saying  of  an  old  lady,  "The  spirits  of 
my  children  always  seem  to  hover  about  me."  "The 
Northern  Cobbler"  was  founded  on  a  true  story  which 
Tennyson  heard  in  his  youth.  "Owd  Roa"  was  the 
poet's  version  of  a  report  that  he  had  read  in  a  news- 
paper about  a  black  retriever  which  saved  a  child 
from  a  burning  house.  To  the  end  of  his  life  he  kept 
his  familiarity  with  the  Lincolnshire  variety  of  Eng- 
lish, and  delighted  to  read  aloud  his  verses  written  in 
that  racy  and  resonant  dialect,  which  is  now,  unfor- 
tunately, rapidly  disappearing  in  the  dull  march  of 
improvement. 

Turning  from  these  genre-pieces,  we  find  two  of  his 
most  powerful  ballads,  one  intensely  tragic,  the  other 
irresistibly  pathetic,  based  upon  incidents  related  in 
contemporary  periodicals.  In  a  penny  magazine,  called 
Old  Brighton,  he  read  a  story  of  a  young  man  named 
Rooke  who  was  hanged  in  chains  for  robbing  the 
mail,  near  the  close  of  the  eighteenth  century.  "When 
the  elements  had  caused  the  clothes  and  flesh  to  de- 
cay, his  aged  mother,  night  after  night,  in  all  wea- 
thers, and  the  more  tempestuous  the  weather  the  more 
frequent  the  visits,  made  a  sacred  pilgrimage  to  the 
lonely  spot  on  the  Downs,  and  it  was  noticed  that  on 
her  return  she  always  brought  something  away  with 
her  in  her  apron.  Upon  being  watched,  it  was  discov- 
ered that  the  bones  of  the  hanging  man  were  the  ob- 
jects of  her  search,  and  as  the  wind  and  rain  scattered 

1  Memories  of  the  Tennysons,  by  H.  D.  Rawnsley,  MacLehose, 
Glasgow,  1900,  pp.  113  ff. 


INTRODUCTION 

them  on  the  ground  she  conveyed  them  to  her  home. 
There  she  kept  them,  and,  when  the  gibbet  was  stripped 
of  its  horrid  burden,  in  the  dead  silence  of  the  night, 
she  interred  them  in  the  hallowed  enclosure  of  Old 
Shoreham  Churchyard."  This  is  the  tale.  Imagine  what 
Byron  would  have  made  of  it;  or  Shelley,  if  we  may 
judge  by  the  gruesome  details  of  the  second  part  of 
"The  Sensitive  Plant."  But  Tennyson  goes  straight 
to  the  heart  of  the  passion  of  motherhood,  surviving 
shame  and  sorrow,  conquering  fear  and  weakness  in 
that  withered  mother's  breast.  She  tells  her  story  in 
a  dramatic  lyric,  a  naked  song  of  tragedy,  a  solitary, 
trembling  war-cry  of  indomitable  love.  Against  this 
second  Rizpah,  greater  in  her  heroism  than  even  the 
Hebrew  mother  whose  deeds  are  told  in  the  Book  of 
Samuel,  all  the  forces  of  law  and  church  and  society 
are  arrayed.  But  she  will  not  be  balked  of  her  human 
rights.  She  will  hope  that  somewhere  there  is  mercy 
for  her  boy.  She  will  gather  his  bones  from  shame  and 
lay  them  to  rest  in  consecrated  ground. 

Flesh  of  my  flesh  was  gone,  but  bone  of  my  bone  was  left — 
/  stole  them  all  from  the  lawyers — and  you,  will  you  call 

it  a  theft? 
My  baby,  the  bones  that  had  suck'd  me,  the  bones  that  had 

laugh' d  and  had  cried, — 
Theirs?  0  no.'  They  are  mine — not  theirs — they  had 

moved  in  my  side. 

"In  the  Children's  Hospital"  is  a  poem  as  tender 
as  "Rizpah"  is  passionate.  The  story  was  told  to 
Tennyson  by  Miss  Mary  Gladstone.  An  outline  of  it 
was  printed  in  a  parochial  magazine  under  the  title 


INTRODUCTION 

''Alice's  Christmas  Day."  The  theme  is  the  faith  and 
courage  of  a  child  in  the  presence  of  pain  and  death. 
That  the  poet  at  seventy  years  of  age  should  be  able 
to  enter  so  simply,  so  sincerely,  so  profoundly  into 
the  sweet  secret  of  a  suffering  child's  heart,  is  a 
marvellous  thing.  After  all,  there  must  be  something 
moral  and  spiritual  in  true  poetic  genius.  It  is  not 
mere  intellectual  power.  It  is  temperament,  it  is  sym- 
pathy, it  is  that  power  to  put  oneself  in  another's 
place,  which  lies  so  close  to  the  root  of  the  Golden 
Rule. 


[Lai] 


INTRODUCTION 

IV 

TENNYSON'S  REVISION  OF  HIS  TEXT 

Vos,  o 

Pompilius  sanguis,  carmen  reprehendite,  quod  non 
Multa  dies  et  multa  litura  coercuit,  atque 
Perfectum  decies  non  castigavit  ad  unguem. 

HORACE:  De  Arte  Poetica,  291-294. 

THE  changes  which  a  poet  makes,  from  time  to  time, 
in  the  text  of  his  poems  may  be  taken  in  part  as  a 
measure  of  his  power  of  self-criticism,  and  in  part  as 
a  record  of  the  growth  of  his  mind.  It  is  true,  of  course, 
that  a  man  may  prefer  to  put  his  new  ideas  altogether 
into  new  poems  and  leave  the  old  ones  untouched; 
true  also  that  the  creative  impulse  may  be  so  much 
stronger  than  the  critical  as  to  make  him  impatient 
of  the  limce  labor  et  mora.  This  was  the  case  with  Rob- 
ert Browning.  There  was  a  time  when  he  made  a  point 
of  turning  out  a  poem  every  day.  When  reproached 
for  his  indifference  to  form,  he  said  that  'the  world 
must  take  him  as  it  found  him.' 

But  Tennyson  was  a  constant,  careful  corrector  of 
his  own  verse.  He  held  that  "an  artist  should  get  his 
workmanship  as  good  as  he  can,  and  make  his  work 
as  perfect  as  possible.  A  small  vessel,  built  on  fine 
lines,  is  likely  to  float  further  down  the  stream  of  time 
than  a  big  raft."  He  was  keenly  sensitive  to  the  subtle 
effects  of  rhythm,  the  associations  of  words,  the  beauty 
of  form.  The  deepening  of  thought  and  feeling  which 
came  to  him  with  the  experience  of  life  did  not  make 
him  indifferent  to  the  technics  of  his  craft  as  a  poet. 
[  bciii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

Indeed  it  seemed  to  intensify  his  desire  for  perfection. 
The  more  he  had  to  say  the  more  carefully  he  wished 
to  say  it. 

The  first  and  most  important  revision  of  his  work 
began  in  the  period  of  his  greatest  spiritual  and  in- 
tellectual growth,  immediately  after  the  death  of  his 
friend  Hallam.  The  results  of  it  were  seen  in  the  early 
poems,  republished  in  the  two  volumes  of  1842.  From 
this  time  forward  there  were  many  changes  in  the  suc- 
cessive editions  of  his  poems.  The  Princess,  published 
in  1847,  was  slightly  altered  in  1848,  thoroughly  re- 
vised in  1850  (when  the  intercalary  songs  were  added), 
and  considerably  enlarged  in  1851.  The  "Ode  on  the 
Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington,"  printed  as  a  pam- 
phlet in  1852,  was  immediately  revised  in  1853,  and 
again  much  altered  when  it  appeared  in  the  same  vol- 
ume with  Maud  in  1855.  As  late  as  August  1892,  I 
heard  Tennyson  questioning  whether  the  line  describ- 
ing the  cross  of  St.  Paul's — 

That  shines  over  city  and  river — 
should  be  changed  to  read, 

That  shines  upon  city  and  river. 

There  were  general  revisions  in  1872  (The  Library 
Edition),  in  1874  (The  Cabinet  Edition),  in  1884  (The 
Globe  Edition),  in  1886  (A  New  Library  Edition,  in 
ten  volumes),  in  1889,  and  in  1891.  The  complete 
single-volume  edition,  "with  last  alterations,"  was 
published  in  1894. 

In  Memoriam  received  less  revision  after  its  first  pub- 

[  bdv  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

Mention  than  any  other  of  Tennyson's  larger  poems; l 
probably  because  it  had  been  so  frequently  worked 
over  in  manuscript.  Sixteen  years  passed  between  its 
inception  and  its  appearance  in  print. 

I  propose  to  examine  some  of  Tennyson's  changes 
in  his  text  in  order  that  we  may  do  what  none  of  the 
critics  have  yet  done,  —  get  a  clear  idea  of  their  gen- 
eral character  and  the  particular  reasons  why  he  made 
them.  These  changes  may  be  classified  under  five 
heads,  descriptive  of  the  different  reasons  for  revision. 

1.  For  simplicity  and  naturalness. — There  was  a  tinc- 
ture of  archaism  in  the  early  diction  of  Tennyson,  an 
occasional  use  of  far-fetched  words,  an  unfamiliar  way 
of  spelling,  a  general  flavour  of  conscious  exquisite- 
ness,  which  seemed  to  his  maturer  judgment  to  savour 
of  affectation.  These  blemishes,  due  to  the  predomi- 
nance of  the  aesthetic  impulse,  he  was  careful  to  re- 
move. 

At  first,  he  tells  us,  he  had  "an  absurd  antipathy"  to 
the  use  of  the  hyphen;  and  in  1830  and  1832  he  wrote, 
in  "  Mariana,"  Jiowerplots,casementcurtain,  marishmosses, 
silvergreen  ;  and  in  "The  Palace  of  Art,"  pleasurehouse, 
sunnyrvarm,  torrentbow,  clearwalled.  In  1842  the  despised 
hyphen  was  restored  to  its  place,  and  the  compound 
words  were  spelled  according  to  common  usage.  He 
discarded  also  his  early  fashion  of  accenting  the  ed  in 
the  past  participle,  —  ivreathed,  blenched,  gleaned,  etc. 

Archaic  elisions,  like  "throne  o'  the  massive  ore" 
in  "Recollections  of  the  Arabian  Nights"  (/.  146),  and 

1  Joseph  Jacobs,  Tennyson  and  In  Memoriam,  notes  sixty-two 
verbal  changes.  Two  sections  (xxxix,  lix)  have  been  added  to  the 
poem. 

C  Ixv  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

"up  an'  away"  in  " Mariana"  (/.  50),  and  "whither 
away  wi'  the  singing  sail"  in  "The  Sea- Fairies,"  were 
eliminated. 

A  purified  and  chastened  taste  made  him  prefer,  in 
the  "Ode  to  Memory/' 

With  plaited  alleys  of  the  trailing  rose — 

[1842] 
to 

With  pleached  alleys  of  the  trailing  rose. 

[1830] 

In  "The  Lady  of  Shalott"  he  left  out 

A  pearlgarland  minds  her  head: 
She  leaneth  on  a  velvet  bed, 
Full  royally  apparelled. 

In  "Mariana"  he  substituted 

The  day 

Was  sloping  toward  his  western  borver, 

[1842] 
for 

The  day 

Downsloped  was  westering  in  his  bower. 

[1830] 

The  general  result  of  such  alterations  as  these  was 
to  make  the  poems  more  simple  and  straightforward. 
In  the  same  way  we  feel  that  there  is  great  gain  in 
the  omission  of  the  stanzas  about  a  balloon  which  were 
originally  prefixed  to  "A  Dream  of  Fair  Women/'  and 
of  the  elaborate  architectural  and  decorative  details 
which  overloaded  the  first  version  of  "The  Palace  of 
Art/'  and  in  the  compression  of  the  last  strophe  of 
"The  Lotos-Eaters/'  with  its  curious  pictures  of  'the 
[  Ixvi  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

tusked  seahorse  wallowing  in  a  stripe  of  grassgreen 
calm,'  and  fthe  monstrous  narwhale  swallowing  his 
own  foam  fountains  in  the  sea.'  We  can  well  spare  these 
marine  prodigies  for  the  sake  of  such  a  line  as 

Roll'd  to  starboard,  roll'd  to  larboard,  when  the  surge  was 

seething  free. 

[1842] 

2.  For  melody  and  smoothness.  —  It  was  a  constant 
wish  of  Tennyson  to  make  his  verse  easy  to  read,  as 
musical  as  possible,  except  when  the  sense  required  a 
rough  or  broken  rhythm.  He  had  a  strong  aversion  to 
the  hissing  sound  of  the  letter  s  when  it  comes  at  the 
end  of  a  word  and  at  the  beginning  of  the  next  word. 
He  was  always  trying  to  get  rid  of  this,  —  "kicking 
the  geese  out  of  the  boat/'  as  he  called  it, — and  he 
thought  that  he  had  succeeded.  (Memoir,  II,  p.  14.) 
But  this,  of  course,  was  a  "flattering  unction."  It  is 
not  .difficult  to  find  instances  of  the  double  sibilant 
remaining  in  his  verse:  for  example,  in  "A  Dream  of 
Fair  Women"  (/.  241):  — 

She  lock'd  her  lips :  she  left  me  where  I  stood, 

and  "Sir  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guinevere"  (/.  23):  — 

She  seem'd  a  part  of  joyous  Spring. 

But  for  the  most  part  he  was  careful  to  remove  it,  as 
in  the  following  cases. 

"The  Lady  of  Shalott"  (/.  156):  — 

A  pale,  pale  corpse  she  jloated  by. 

[1833] 
A  gleaming  shape  she  Jloated  by. 

[1842] 
[  Ixvii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 
"Mariana  in  the  South"  (//.  9-10):  — 

Down  in  the  dry  salt-marshes  stood 

That  house  darklatticed. 

[Omitted,  1842] 

"Locksley  Hall"  (7.  182):  — 

Let  the  peoples  spin  for  ever  down  the  ringing  grooves  of 

change. 

[1842] 

Let  the  great  world  spin  for  ever  down  the  ringing  grooves 

of  change, 

[1845] 

Alteration's  were  made  in  order  to  get  rid  of  un- 
pleasant assonance  in  blank  verse,  as  in  "CEnone" 
(/.  19):- 

She,  leaning  on  a  vine-entwined  stone. 

[1833] 

She,  leaning  on  a  fragment  twined  with  vine. 

[1842] 

Disagreeable  alliterations  were  removed,  as  in  "Ma- 
riana" (/.  43):  — 

For  leagues  no  other  tree  did  dark. 

[1830] 

For  leagues  no  other  tree  did  mark. 

[1842] 

"Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington" 
(I  5):- 

When  laurel-garlanded  leaders  fall. 

[1852] 

Mourning  when  their  leaders  fall. 

[1855] 

[  Ixviii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

Imperfect  rhymes  were  corrected,  as  in  "  Mariana 
in  the  South"  (/.  85):  — 

One  dry  cicala's  summer  song 

At  night  filed  all  the  gallery, 
Backward  the  latticeblind  she  flung 

And  leaned  upon  the  balcony. 

[1833] 

At  eve  a  dry  cicala  sung, 

There  came  a  sound  as  of  the  sea, 
Backward  the  lattice-blind  she  flung, 

And  leand  upon  the  balcony. 

[1842] 

Incongruous  and  harsh  expressions  were  removed, 
as  in  "The  Poet"  (/.  45):  — 

And  in  the  bordure  of  her  robe  was  writ 
WISDOM,  a  name  to  shake 

Hoar  anarchies,  as  with  a  thunderfit. 

[1830] 

And  in  her  raiment's  hem  was  traced  inflame 
WISDOM,  a  name  to  shake 

All  evil  dreams  of  power — a  sacred  name. 

[1842] 

Two  very  delicate  and  perfect  examples  of  the  same 
kind  of  improvement  are  found  in  the  revision  of 
"Claribel"  (/.  11):  — 

At  noon  the  bee  low-hummeth. 

[1830] 
At  noon  the  wild  bee  hummeth. 

[18421 
And  (/.  17):  — 

The  fledgling  throstle  lispelh. 

[1830] 

[  Ixix  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

The  callow  throstle  lispeth. 

[1842] 

Some  of  the  alterations  in  the  Wellington  Ode  are 
very  happy.  Line  79  originally  read, 

And  ever-ringing  avenues  of  song. 

How  much  more  musical  is  the  present  version: — 

And  ever-echoing  avenues  of  song! 

In  line   133,  "world's  earthquake"  was  changed  to 
"world-earthquake."  Line  267, — 

Hush,  the  Dead  March  sounds  in  the  people's  ears, — 

[1853] 

was  wonderfully  deepened  in  1855,  when  it  was  al- 
tered to 

Hush,  the  Dead  March  wails  in  the  people's  ears. 

3.  For  clearness  of  thought.  —  The  most  familiar  in- 
stance of  this  kind  of  revision  is  in  "A. Dream  of  Fair 
Women."  In  1833  the  stanza  describing  the  sacrifice 
of  Iphigenia  ended  with  the  lines 

One  drew  a  sharp  knife  thro'  my  tender  throat 
Slowly, — and  nothing  more. 

A  critic  very  properly  inquired  '  what  more  she  would 
have.'  The  lines  were  changed  to 

'  The  bright  death  quiver  d  at  the  victim's  throat; 
Touch' d ;  and  I  knew  no  more.' 

There  is  another  curious  illustration  in  "  Lady  Clara 
Vere  de  Vere."  In  1842  lines  49-52  read, — 

Trust  me,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

From  yon  blue  heavens  above  us  bent 


INTRODUCTION 

The  gardener  Adam  and  his  nnfe 
Smile  at  the  claims  of  long  descent. 

Line  51  was  changed,  in  1845,  to 

The  grand  old  gardener  and  his  nnfe, 

which  was  both  weak  and  ambiguous.  One  might  fancy 
(as  a  young  lady  of  my  acquaintance  did)  that  the  poet 
was  speaking  of  some  fine  old  gardener  on  the  De 
Vere  estate,  who  had  died  and  gone  to  heaven.  In  1875 
Tennyson  restored  the  original  and  better  reading, 
"The  gardener  Adam." 

A  few  more  illustrations  will  suffice  to  show  how 
careful  he  was  to  make  his  meaning  clear. 

"Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington" 
(I  157).- 

Of  most  unbounded  reverence  and  regret. 

[1852] 

But  it  is  hard  to  see  how  anything  can  be  more  or  less 
unbounded;  so  the  line  was  changed: — 

Of  boundless  reverence  and  regret. 

[1853] 

Of  boundless  love  and  reverence  and  regret. 

[1855] 
"The  Marriage* of  Geraint"  (/.  70):— 

They  sleeping  each  by  other. 

[1859] 
They  sleeping  each  by  either. 

[1874] 
"Lancelot  and  Elaine"  (/.  45): — 

And  one  of  these,  the  king,  had  on  a  crown. 

[1859] 
[  Ixxi  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

And  he  that  once  was  king  had  on  a  crown. 

[1874] 
Line  168:  — 

Thither  he  made,  and  wound  the  gateway  horn. 

[1859] 

Thither  he  made,  and  blew  the  gateway  horn. 

[1874] 

Line  1147:— 

Steer'd  by  the  dumb,  went  upward  nilh  thejlood. 

[1859] 

Oar'd  by  the  dumb,  went  upward  with  thejlood. 

[1874] 
"Guinevere"  (/.  470): — 

To  honour  his  own  word  as  if  his  God's: 

this  line  was  not  in  the  1859  version.  It  enhances  the 
solemnity  of  the  oath  of  initiation  into  the  Round 
Table. 

"The  Passing  of  Arthur"  (//.  462-469):  — 

Thereat  once  more  he  moved  about,  and  clomb 
Ev'n  to  the  highest  he  could  climb,  and  saw, 
Straining  his  eyes  beneath  an  arch  of  hand, 
Or  thought  he  saw,  the  speck  that  bare  the  King, 
Down  that  long  water  opening  on  the  deep 
Somewhere  Jar  off,  pass  on  and  on,  and  go 
From  less  to  less  and  vanish  into  light. 
And  the  new  sun  rose  bringing  the  new  year. 

These  lines,  with  others,  were  added  to  "Morte  d' Ar- 
thur," the  original  form  of  this  idyll,  in  order  to  bring 
[  Ixxii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

out  the  distant  gleam  of  hope  which  is  thrown  upon 
the  close  of  the  epic  by  the  vision  of  Arthur's  immor- 
tality and  the  prophecy  of  his  return. 

4.  For  truth  in  the  description  of  nature. — The  alter- 
ations made  for  this  reason  are  very  many.  I  give  a 
few  examples. 

"The  Lotos-Eaters"  (/.  7):  — 

Above  the  valley  burned  the  golden  moon. 

[1833] 

But  in  the  afternoon  (/.  3)  the  moon  is  of  palest  sil- 
ver; so  the  line  was  revised  thus:  — 

Full-faced  above  the  valley  stood  the  moon. 

[1842] 

Line  16  originally  read, 

Three  thundercloven  thrones  of  oldest  mow. 

[1833] 

But,  in  the  first  place,  it  is  the  lightning,  not  the 
thunder,  that  cleaves  the  mountains ;  and,  in  the  sec- 
ond place,  a  snow-peak,  if  struck  by  lightning,  would 
not  remain  "cloven"  very  long,  but  would  soon  be 
covered  with  snow  again.  For  these  reasons,  quite  as 
much  as  for  the  sake  of  preserving  the  quiet  and 
dreamy  tone  of  Lotos-land,  Tennyson  changed  the 
line  to 

Three  silent  pinnacles  of  aged  snow. 

[1842] 

In  "Locksley  Hall"  (/.  3),  the  first  reading  was 

'  T  is  the  place,  and  round  the  gables,  as  of  old,  the  cur- 
lews call. 

[1842] 
[  Ixxiii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

But  the  curlews  do  not  fly  close  to  the  roofs  of  houses, 
as  the  swallows  do;  so  the  line  was  changed  to 

'Tis  the  place,  and  all  around  it, as  of  old,  the  curlews  call. 

[1845] 
"Mariana"  (//.  3-4): — 

The  rusted  nails  fell  from  the  knots 

That  held  the  peach  to  the  gardenwall. 

[1830] 

This  was  not  quite  characteristic  of  a  Lincolnshire  gar-. 
den;  so  it  was  altered,  in  1863  and  1872,  to  the  pre- 
sent form:  — 

That  held  the  pear  to  the  gable-wall. 
"The  Poet's  Song"  (/.  9):— 

The  swallow  stopped  as  he  hunted  the  bee. 

[1842] 

But  swallows  do  not  hunt  bees;  so  the  line  was 
changed  to 

The  swallow  stopt  as  he  hunted  the  fly. 

[1884] 

"Lancelot  and  Elaine"  (//.  652-653):  — 

No  surer  than  our  falcon  yesterday, 

Who  lost  the  hern  we  slipt  him  at. 

[1859] 

But  the  female  falcon,  being  larger  and  fiercer,  is  the 
one  usually  employed  in  the  chase ;  so  him  was  changed 
to  her. 

There  is  a  very  interesting  addition  to  In  Memo- 
riam,  which  bears  witness  to  Tennyson's  scrupulous 
desire  to  be  truthful  in  natural  description.  Section  ii 

[  Ixxiv  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

is  addressed  to  an  old  Yew-tree  in  the  graveyard,  and 
contains  this  stanza:  — 

0  not  for  thee  the  glow,  the  bloom, 
Who  changest  not  in  any  gale, 
Nor  branding  summer  suns  avail 

To  touch  thy  thousand  years  of  gloom. 

But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  yew  has  its  season  of 
bloom;  and  so  in  Section  xxxix,  added  in  1871,  we 
find  these  lines: — 

To  thee  too  comes  the  golden  hour 
WhSn  flower  is  feeling  after  flower; 
But  Sorrow,— Jixt  upon  the  dead, 

And  darkening  the  dark  graves  of  men, — 
What  whisper  d  from  her  lying  lips? 
Thy  gloom  is  kindled  at  the  tips, 

And  passes  into  gloom  again. 

5.  For  deeper  meaning  and  human  interest.  —  In  this 
respect  the  revision  of  "The  Palace  of  Art"  is  most 
important.  The  stanzas  added  in  the  later  editions  of 
this  poem  have  the  effect  of  intensifying  its  signifi- 
cance, making  the  sin  of  self-centred  isolation  stand 
out  sharply  (II.  197-204),  displaying  the  scornful  con- 
tempt of  the  proud  soul  for  common  humanity  (II. 
145-160),  and  throwing  over  the  picture  the  Phari- 
see's robe  of  moral  self-complacency  (//.  205-208). 
The  introduction  in  1833  began  as  follows:  — 

/  send  you,  friend,  a  sort  of  allegory, 
(You  are  an  artist  and  will  understand 
Its  many  lesser  meanings.) 
[  Ixxv  ] 


INTRODUCTION 
But  in  1842  the  lines  read 

/  send  you  here  a  sort  of  allegory, 
(For  you  will  understand  it.) 

The  poet  no  longer  addresses  his  work  to  an  artist: 
he  speaks  more  broadly  to  man  as  man.  For  the  same 
reason  he  omits  a  great  many  of  the  purely  decora- 
tive stanzas,  and  concentrates  the  attention  on  the 
spiritual  drama. 

The  addition  of  the  Conclusion  to  " The  May  Queen" 
(1842)  is  another  instance  of  Tennyson's  enrichment 
of  his  work  with  warmer  human  interest.  In  the  first 
two  parts  there  is  nothing  quite  so  intimate  in  know- 
ledge of  the  heart  as  the  lines 

0  look!  the  sun  begins  to  rise,  the  heavens  are  in  a  glow; 
He  shines  upon  a  hundred  Jie Ids,  and  all  of  them  I  know. 

There  is  nothing  quite  so  true  to  the  simplicity  of 
childlike  faith  as  the  closing  verses:  — 

To  lie  within  the  light  of  God,  as  I  lie  upon  your  breast — 
And  the  nicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary  are 
at  rest. 

The  sixth  strophe  of  the  Choric  Song  in  "The  Lo- 
tos-Eaters/' beginning 

Dear  is  the  memory  of  our  wedded  lives. 
And  dear  the  last  embraces  of  our  wives 
And  their  warm  tears, — 

was  added  in  1842. 

In  the  "Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Welling- 

[  Ixxvi  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

ton/'  lines  266-270  were  added  after  the  first  edi- 
tion:— 

On  God  and  Godlike  men  me  build  our  trust. 
Hush,  the  Dead  March  wails  in  the  people  s  ears : 
The  dark  crowd  moves,  and  there  are  sobs  and  tears: 
The  black  earth  yawns:  the  mortal  disappears; 
Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust. 

This  passage  brings  a  deep  note  of  natural  emotion 
into  the  poem.  The  physical  effect  of  the  actual  inter- 
ment, the  sight  of  the  yawning  grave,  the  rattle  of  the 
handful  of  earth  thrown  upon  the  coffin,  are  vividly 
expressed. 

A  noteworthy  change  for  the  sake  of  expressing  a 
deeper  human  feeling  occurs  in  "The  Lady  of  Sha- 
lott."  The  original  form  of  the  last  stanza  was  merely 
picturesque:  it  described  the  wonder  and  perplexity 
of  "the  wellfed  wits  at  Camelot"  when  they  looked 
upon  the  dead  maiden  in  her  funeral  barge  and  read 
the  parchment  on  her  breast:  — 

"  The  web  was  woven  curiously, 
The  charm  is  broken  utterly, 
Draw  near  and  fear  not — this  is  I, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott." 

[1833] 

But  the  revised  version  makes  them  "cross  them- 
selves for  fear,"  and  brings  the  knight  for  secret  love 
of  whom  the  maiden  died  to  look  upon  her  face:  — 

But  Lancelot  mused  a  little  space : 
He  said,  'She  has  a  lovely  face; 
God  in  his  mercy  lend  her  grace, 
The  Lady  of  Shalott.' 
[  Ixxvii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

The  addition  of  the  songs  to  The  Princess  (1850) 
must  be  regarded  as  evidence  of  a  desire  to  deepen 
the  meaning  of  the  story.  Tennyson  said  distinctly 
that  he  wished  to  make  people  see  that  the  child  was 
the  heroine  of  the  poem.  The  songs  are  a  great  help 
in  this  direction.  In  the  Idylls  of  the  King  Tennyson 
took  pains,  as  he  went  on  with  the  series,  to  eliminate 
all  traces  of  the  old  tradition  which  made  Modred  the 
son  of  King  Arthur  and  his  half-sister  Bellicent,  thus 
sweeping  away  the  taint  of  incest  from  the  story,  and 
revealing  the  catastrophe  as  the  result  of  the  unlaw- 
ful love  of  Lancelot  and  Guinevere.  (See  The  Poetry  of 
Tennyson,  pp.  171  jf.)  He  introduced  many  allegorical 
details  into  the  later  Idylls.  And  he  endeavoured  to 
enhance  the  epic  dignity  and  significance  of  the  series 
by  inserting  the  closing  passages  of  "  The  Coming  of 
Arthur"  and  "The  Passing  of  Arthur,"  which  present 
clearly  the  idea  of  a  great  kingdom  rising  under  Ar- 
thur's leadership  and  falling  into  ruin  with  his  defeat. 

A  general  study  of  the  changes  which  Tennyson 
made  in  the  text  of  his  poems  will  show,  beyond  a 
doubt,  not  only  that  he  was  sensitive  to  the  imperfec- 
tions in  his  work  and  ready  to  profit,  at  least  to  a  cer- 
tain extent,  by  the  suggestions  of  critics;  but  also 
that  his  skill  as  an  artist  was  refined  by  use,  and  that 
his  thoughts  of  life  and  his  sympathies  with  mankind 
deepened  and  broadened  with  advancing  years.  Thus 
there  was  a  compensation  for  the  loss  of  something  of 
the  delicate,  inimitable  freshness,  the  novel  and  en- 
chanting charm,  which  breathed  from  the  lyrics  of  his 
youth. 

[  Ixxviii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

V 

THE    CLASSIFICATION    OF   TENNYSON'S    POEMS 

TENNYSON  never  attempted  to  arrange  his  works  on 
any  such  formal  scheme  as  Wordsworth  used  in  classi- 
fying his  poems  for  the  edition  of  1815  and  followed 
in  all  subsequent  editions.  "Poems,"  said  he,  "appar- 
ently miscellaneous,  may  be  arranged  either  with  re- 
ference to  the  powers  of  mind  predominant  in  the  pro- 
duction of  them;  or  to  the  mould  in  which  they  are 
cast;  or,  lastly,  to  the  subjects  to  which  they  relate." 
He  determined  to  use  all  three  of  these  methods  in 
dividing  his  poems  into  classes,  and  also,  as  far  as  pos- 
sible, to  follow  "an  order  of  time,  commencing  with 
Childhood,  and  tenninating  with  Old  Age,  Death,  and 
Immortality." 

The  disadvantage,  one  might  almost  say  the  ab- 
surdity, of  such  a  mixed  method  is  obvious.  The  real 
value  of  classification  lies  in  the  unfolding  of  a  single 
organic  principle.  Confusion  is  introduced  when  a 
compromise  is  made.  It  becomes  difficult,  if  not  im- 
possible, to  understand  just  which  one  of  several  rea- 
sons has  been  allowed  to  determine  any  particular 
feature  of  the  arrangement.  One  might  as  well  try  to 
classify  flowers,  at  one  and  the  same  time,  by  their 
structure,  their  colour,  and  the  order  of  their  appear- 
ance. 

Tennyson's  mind  was  not  possessed  by  that  sharp 
philosophical  distinction  between  Fancy  and  Imagi- 
nation which  played  so  large  a  part  with  Coleridge 
and  Wordsworth.  He  had  little  of  the  analytical  tem- 

[  Ixxix  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

per  which  delights  in  making  programmes.  His  view 
of  poetry  was  less  theoretical,  more  practical  and  con- 
crete,— the  view  of  an  artist,  who  regards  his  work 
as  the  direct  and  vital  expression  of  his  life, — rather 
than  the  view  of  a  philosopher,  who  looks  back  upon 
his  work  as  the  illustration  of  a  formula,  and  endeav- 
ours to  make  it  fit. 

We  find,  therefore,  that  in  the  various  editions  of 
his  collected  works  the  poems  are  given,  in  general, 
according  to  the  chronological  order,  beginning  with 
Juvenilia,  and  closing  with  those  which  were  con- 
tained in  the  last-published  volume.  From  the  first, 
this  chronological  arrangement  involved  a  certain  out- 
line of  symmetrical  development,  following  the  suc- 
cessive impulses  which  came  into  his  poetic  art,  and 
bringing  together,  quite  naturally,  poems  in  which  a 
certain  relation  of  spirit  and  manner  may  be  felt. 
Later  it  was  necessary,  for  the  sake  of  order,  to  give  a 
systematic  arrangement  to  pieces  which  were  written 
at  different  times,  like  the  Idylls  of  the  King  and  the 
Dramas.  The  general  result  of  this  method  has  been 
to  present  the  longer  poems,  The  Princess,  Maud,  In 
Memoriam,  and  the  Idylls  of  the  King,  in  the  centre 
of  Tennyson's  work,  preceded  by  the  miscellaneous 
poems  of  youth  and  followed  by  the  miscellaneous 
poems  of  age.  The  collection  begins  with  "Claribel," 
a  lyric  of  delicate  artistry,  and  ends  with  "Crossing 
the  Bar,"  a  lyric  of  profound  meaning. 

But  for  the  purposes  of  the  present  volume  I  think 

something  a  little  different  is  desirable  and  possible. 

For  here  we  have  not  the  full  record  of  his  life  and 

work  as  poet,  but  a  selection  of  poems  chosen  to  show 

[  btxx  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

his  chief  characteristics,  to  represent  the  best  that 
he  has  done  in  the  different  fields  of  his  art,  and  to 
stand,  at  least  approximately,  as  a  measure  of  his  con- 
tributions to  that  which  is  permanent  in  the  various 
departments  of  English  poetry.  It  is  natural,  there- 
fore, and  indeed  almost  necessary  for  the  end  which 
we  have  in  view,  to  try  to  arrange  these  contributions 
in  general  groups. 

The  principle  which  I  have  followed  is  practical 
rather  than  theoretical.  The  old  Greek  division  — 
lyric,  dramatic,  epic — could  not  well  be  strictly  used 
because  so  much  of  Tennyson's  work  lies  in  the  border- 
lands between  these  three  great  domains.  The  purely 
chronological  arrangement  was  impracticable  because 
it  would  separate,  by  long  distances,  poems  which 
are  as  closely  related  as  "Break,  break,  break"  and 
"In  the  Valley  of  Cauteretz";  "Morte  d' Arthur"  and 
"Guinevere";  and  the  different  sections  of  In  Memo- 
riam. 

It  seems  to  me  better  to  bring  together  the  poems 
which  are  really  most  alike  in  their  general  purpose 
and  effect. 

I.  Thus,  for  example,  there  is  a  kind  of  poetry  of 
which  the  first  charm  resides  in  its  appeal  to  the  sense 
of  beauty.  This  is  not  its  only  quality,  of  course,  for  all 
verse  must  have  a  meaning  in  order  to  have  a  value. 
But  the  prevailing  effect  of  the  kind  of  poetry  of  which 
I  am  speaking  is  the  feeling  of  pleasure  in  graceful 
form,  rich  colour,  the  clear  and  memorable  vision  of 
outward  things,  or  the  utterance  of  emotion  in  haunt- 
ing music.  Poems  which  have  this  musical  and  pictur- 
esque quality  in  predominance  (whether  or  not  they 
[  Ixxxi  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

carry  with  them  a  deeper  significance)  are  first  of  all 
Melodies  and  Pictures.  With  this  kind  of  verse  Tenny- 
son began ;  in  it,  as  his  art  was  developed,  he  attained 
a  rare  mastery;  and  to  it  a  great  deal  of  his  most 
finely  finished  work  belongs. 

For  this  reason  the  present  volume  begins  with  a  se- 
lection of  lyrics  of  this  general  class:  first,  those  in 
which  the  melodic  element,  the  verbal  music,  is  the 
main  charm ;  second,  those  in  which  the  chief  delight 
comes  from  the  pictorial  element, the  vivid  description 
of  things  seen.  I  do  not  imagine  that  this  distinction 
can  be  closely  applied,  or  that  all  readers  would  draw 
it  in  the  same  way.  But  at  least  I  hope  that  in  both 
groups  of  this  main  division  a  certain  order  of  advance 
can  be  seen:  a  deeper  meaning  coming  into  the  melo- 
dies, a  broader  htfman  interest  coming  into  the  pic- 
tures. 

II.  In  the  next  general  division, — Ballads,  Idyls, 
and  Character-Pieces,- — the  significance  has  become 
more  important  than  the  form.  The  interest  of  the 
poems  lies  in  the  story  which  they  tell,  in  the  charac- 
ter which  they  reveal,  in  the  mood  of  human  experi- 
ence which  they  depict.  The  chief  value  of  the  mel- 
ody lies  in  its  vital  relation  to  the  mood.  The  great 
charm  of  the  bits  of  natural  description  lies  in  their 
almost  invariable  harmony  with  the  central  thought 
of  the  poem.  The  idyl  is  a  picture  coloured  by  an 
emotion  and  containing  a  human  figure,  or  figures,  in 
the  foreground.  It  lies  in  the  border-land  between  the 
lyric  and  the  epic.  The  character-piece  is  a  mono- 
logue in  which  a  person  is  disclosed  in  utterance, 
mainly,  if  not  altogether,  from  the  side  of  thought,  of 
[  Ixxxii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

remembrance,  of  reflection.  It  lies  in  the  border-land 
between  the  epic  and  the  drama.  The  dramatic  lyric 
is  an  emotional  self-disclosure,  not  of  the  poet  himself, 
but  of  some  chosen  character,  historical  or  imaginary. 
It  lies  in  the  border-land  between  the  lyric  and  the 
drama.  The  ballad  is  a  story  told  in  song,  briefly  and 
with  strong  feeling.  It  may  receive  a  dramatic  touch 
by  being  told  in  character.  But  usually  it  belongs  in 
the  border-land  between  the  epic  and  the  lyric. 

Turning  now  to  the  poems  which  are  brought 
together  in  this  second  division,  we  find  that  their 
controlling  purpose  is  to  tell  us  something  about  hu- 
man character  and  life.  They  are  larger  in  every  way 
(though  not  necessarily  more  perfect)  than  the  Melo- 
dies and  Pictures,  but  their  theme  is  still  confined  to 
a  single  event,  a  single  character;  or  a  single  mood. 
They  are  related  to  the  epic  as  the  short  story  is  to 
the  novel.  Their  dramatic  element  is  fully  expressed 
only  in  the  person  who  is  speaking;  the  other  charac- 
ters and  the  plot  of  the  play  are  implied.  Maud  is,  I 
believe,  the  unique  example  of  a  drama  presented  in 
successive  lyrics, — a  lyrical  Monodrama. 

III.  The  reason  why  selections  from  Tennyson's 
regular  dramas  have  not  been  given  in  this  volume  is 
stated  in  another  place.  The  limitations  of  space  have 
prevented  the  use  of  anything  more  than  fragments 
of  his  epics.  They  will  be  found  in  the  third  general 
division,  Selections  from  Epic  Poems,  and  are  to  be 
taken  chiefly  as  illustrations  of  his  manner  of  dealing 
with  a  broader  theme.  To  judge  how  far  he  was  able 
to  tell  a  long  rich  story,  how  far  he  understood  the 
architectural  principles  of  epic  poetry,  one  must  turn 
[  Ixxxiii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

directly  to  The  Princess  and  Idylls  of  the  King,  and 
study  them  not  in  fragments  but  as  complete  poems. 

IV.  In  the  fourth  general  division,  Personal  and 
Philosophic  Poems,  we  hear  Tennyson  speaking  to  us 
more  directly,  delivering  his  personal  message  in  re- 
gard to  problems  of  life  and  destiny,  giving  his  own 
answers  to  questions  of  faith  and  duty.  I  do  not  mean 
that  these  are  the  only  poems  in  which  his  personal 
convictions  are  expressed;  nor  that  these  poems  are 
always  and  altogether  subjective  and  confessional. 
Doubtless  in  some  of  them  (as,  for  example  "The 
Ancient  Sage")  there  is  a  dramatic  element.  But 
this  is  what  I  mean :  the  chief  element  of  interest  in 
these  poems  lies  in  what  Matthew  Arnold  calls  "the 
criticism  of  life,"  —  not  abstract,  impersonal,  indirect 
criticism,  but  the  immediate  utterance  of  Tennyson's 
deepest  thoughts  and  feelings.  Here  we  have  what 
he  wishes  to  say  to  us,  (not  as  preacher  or  philosopher 
or  politician,  but  as  poet,)  about  the  right  love  of 
country,  the  true  service  of  art,  and  the  real  life  of 
the  spirit. 

There  is  room  for  difference  of  opinion  in  regard  to 
the  place  of  particular  poems  in  these  general  divi- 
sions. But  I  feel  sure  that  the  order  of  the  divisions 
is  that  which  should  be  followed  in  trying  to  estimate 
the  quality  and  permanent  value  of  Tennyson's  work. 

The  first  object  of  poetry  is  to  impart  pleasure 
through  the  imagination  by  the  expression  of  ideas 
and  feelings  in  metrical  language.  But  there  is  rank 
and  degree  in  pleasures.  The  highest  are  those  in 
which  man's  best  powers  find  play:  the  powers  of  love 
and  hope  and  faith  which  strengthen  and  ennoble 
[  Ixxxiv  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

human  nature.  Thus  from  the  verbal  melodies  and 
pictures  which  have  so  delicate  an  enchantment  for 
the  aesthetic  sense,  we  pass  onward  and  upward  to 
the  human  portraits  which  have  a  story  to  tell,  and 
the  larger  scenes  in  which  the  social  life  of  man  is 
illustrated;  and  from  these  we  rise  again  to  the  re- 
gion where  divine  philosophy  becomes  "musical  as  is 
Apollo's  lute."  The  singer  whose  melodies  charm  us 
is  a  true  poet.  The  bard  whose  message  thrills,  up- 
lifts, and  inspires  us  is  a  great  poet. 


[  Ixxxv  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

VI 

THE    QUALITIES    OF    TENNYSON'S    POETRY 

"His  music  was  the  south-wind's  sigh, 
His  lamp,  the  maidens  downcast  eye, 
And  ever  the  spell  of  beauty  came 
And  turned  the  drowsy  world  tojlame. 
By  lake  and  stream  and  gleaming  hall 
And  modest  copse  and  the  forest  tall, 
Where  er  he  went,  the  magic  guide 
Kept  its  place  by  the  poet's  side. 
Said  melted  the  days  like  cups  of  pearl, 
Served  high  and  low,  the  lord  and  the  churl, 
Loved  harebells  nodding  on  a  rock, 
A  cabin  hung  with  curling  smoke, 
Ring  of  axe  or  hum  of  wheel 
Or  gleam  which  use  can  paint  on  steel, 
And  huts  and  tents;  nor  loved  he  less 
Stately  lords  in  palaces, 
Princely  women  hard  to  please, 
Fenced  by  form  and  ceremony, 
Decked  by  rites  and  courtly  dress 
And  etiquette  of  gentilesse. 

He  came  to  the  green  ocean  s  brim 
And  saw  the  wheeling  sea-birds  skim, 
Summer  and  winter,  o'er  the  wave 
Like  creatures  of  a  skiey  mould 
Impassible  to  heat  or  cold. 
He  stood  before  the  tumbling  main 
With  joy  too  tense  for  sober  brain; 

[  Ixxxvi  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

And  he,  the  bard,  a  crystal  soul 
Sphered  and  concentric  with  the  whole." 

EMERSON:  The  Poetic  Gift. 

IF  an  unpublished  poem  by  Tennyson — say  an  idyll 
of  chivalry,  a  classical  character-piece,  a  modern  dra- 
matic lyric,  or  even  a  little  song  —  were  discovered, 
and  given  out  without  his  name,  it  would  be  easy,  pro- 
vided it  belonged  to  his  best  work,  to  recognize  it  as 
his.  But  it  is  by  no  means  easy  to  define  just  what  it 
is  that  makes  his  poetry  recognizable.  It  is  not  the 
predominance  of  a  single  trait  or  characteristic.  If 
that  were  the  case,  it  would  be  a  simple  matter  to 
put  one's  finger  upon  the  hall-mark.  It  is  not  a  fixed 
and  exaggerated  mannerism.  That  is  the  sign  of  the 
Tennysonians,  rather  than  of  their  master.  His  style 
varies  from  the  luxuriance  of  "A  Dream  of  Fair  Wo- 
men" to  the  simplicity  of  "The  Oak,"  from  the  light- 
ness of  "The  Brook"  to  the  stateliness  of  "Guine- 
vere." There  is  as  much  difference  of  manner  between 
"The  Gardener's  Daughter"  and  "Ulysses,"  as  there 
is  between  Wordsworth's  "Solitary  Reaper"  and  his 
"Dion." 

The  most  remarkable  thing  about  Tennyson's  poe- 
try as  a  whole  is  that  it  expresses  so  fully  and  so  vari- 
ously the  qualities  of  a  many-sided  and  well-balanced 
nature.  But  when  we  look  at  the  poems  separately 
we  see  that,  in  almost  every  case,  the  quality  which 
is  most  closely  related  to  the  subject  of  the  poem  plays 
the  leading  part  in  giving  it  colour  and  form.  There 
is  a  singular  fitness,  a  harmonious  charm  in  his  work, 
not  unlike  that  which  distinguishes  the  painting  of 

[  Ixxxvii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

Titian.  It  is  not,  indeed,  altogether  spontaneous  and 
unstudied.  It  has  the  effect  of  choice,  of  fine  selec- 
tion. But  it  is  inevitable  enough  in  its  way.  The  choice 
being  made,  it  would  be  hard  to  better  it.  The  words 
are  the  right  words,  and  each  stands  in  its  right  place. 
The  one  thing  that  cannot  justly  be  said  of  it,  it 
seems  to  me,  is  precisely  what  Tennyson  says  in  a  cer- 
tain place: — 

/  do  but  sing  because  I  must, 
And  pipe  but  as  the  linnets  sing. 

That  often  seems  true  of  Burns  and  Shelley,  and 
sometimes  of  Keats.  But  it  is  not  true  of  Spenser,  or 
Milton,  or  Gray,  or  Tennyson.  They  do  not  pour  forth 
their  song 

"  In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art." 

I  shall  endeavour  in  the  remaining  pages  of  this  in- 
troduction to  describe  and  illustrate  some  of  the  qual- 
ities which  are  found  in  Tennyson's  poetry. 

1.  His  diction  is  lucid,  suggestive,  melodious.  He 
avoids,  for  the  most  part,  harsh  and  strident  words, 
intricate  constructions,  strange  rhymes,  startling  con- 
trasts. He  chooses  expressions  which  have  a  natural 
rhythm,  an  easy  flow,  a  clear  meaning.  He  has  a  rare 
mastery  of  metrical  resources.  Many  of  his  lyrics  seem 
to  be  composed  to  a  musical  cadence  which  his  in- 
ward ear  has  caught  in  some  happy  phrase. 

He  prefers  to  use  those  metrical  forms  which  are 
free  and  fluent,  and  in  which  there  is  room  for  subtle 
modulations  and  changes.  In  the  stricter  modes  of 
verse  he  is  less  happy.  The  sonnet,  the  Spenserian 

[  Izxxviii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

stanza,  the  heroic  couplet,  the  swift  couplet  (octosyl- 
labic),— these  he  seldom  uses,  and  little  of  his  best 
work  is  done  in  these  forms.  Even  in  four-stress  iambic 
triplets,  the  metre  in  which  "Two  Voices"  is  written, 
he  seems  constrained  and  awkward.  He  is  at  his  best 
in  the  long  swinging  lines  of  "Locksley  Hall"  (eight- 
stress  trochaic  couplets) ;  or  in  a  free  blank  verse  (five- 
stress  iambic),  which  admits  all  the  Miltonic  liberty 
of  shifted  and  hovering  accents,  grace-notes,  omitted 
stresses,  and  the  like;  or  in  mixed  measures  like  "The 
Revenge  "  and  the  Wellington  Ode,  where  the  rhythm 
is  now  iambic  and  now  trochaic;  or  in  metres  which 
he  invented,  like  "The  Daisy,"  or  revived,  like  In 
Memoriam;  or  in  little  songs  like  "Break,  break, 
break"  and  "The  Bugle-Song,"  where  the  melody  is 
as  unmistakable  and  as  indefinable  as  the  feeling. 

He  said,  "Englishmen  will  spoil  English  verses  by 
scanning  them  when  they  are  reading,  and  they  con- 
found accent  with  quantity."  "  In  a  blank  verse  you  can 
have  from  three  up  to  eight  beats;  but,  if  you  vary  the 
beats  unusually,  your  ordinary  newspaper  critic  sets 
up  a  howl."  (Memoir,  II,  12, 14.)  He  liked  the  "run-on" 
from  line  to  line,  the  overflow  from  stanza  to  stanza. 
Much  of  his  verse  is  impossible  to  analyze  if  you  in- 
sist on  looking  for  regular  feet  according  to  the  classic 
models;  but  if  you  read  it  according  to  the  principle 
which  Coleridge  explained  in  the  preface  to"Christa- 
bel,"  by  "counting  the  accents,  not  the  syllables,"  you 
will  find  that  it  falls  into  a  natural  rhythm.  It  seems 
as  if  his  own  way  of  reading  it  aloud  in  a  sort  of  chant 
were  almost  inevitable. 

This  close  relation  of  his  verse  to  music  may  be  felt 
[  Ixxxix  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

in  Maud,  and  in  his  perfect  little  lyrics  like  the  au- 
tumnal "Song,"  "The  Throstle,"  "Tears,  idle  tears," 
"Sweet  and  low,"  and  "Far — far — away."  Here  also 
we  see  the  power  of  suggestiveness,  the  atmospheric 
effect,  in  his  diction.  Every  word  is  in  harmony  with 
the  central  emotion  of  the  song,  vague,  delicate,  in- 
timate, mingled  of  sweetness  and  sadness. 

The  most  beautiful  illustration  of  this  is  "Crossing 
the  Bar"  (p.  342).  Notice  how  the  metre,  in  each 
stanza,  rises  to  the  long  third  line,  and  sinks  away 
again  in  the  shorter  fourth  line.  The  poem  is  in  two 
parts;  the  first  stanza  corresponding,  in  every  line,  to 
the  third;  the  second  stanza,  to  the  fourth.  In  each 
division  of  the  song  there  is  first,  a  clear,  solemn, 
tranquil  note, — a  reminder  that  the  day  is  over  and 
it  is  time  to  depart.  The  accent  hovers  over  the  words 
"sunset"  and  "twilight,"  and  falls  distinctly  on  "star" 
and  "bell."  Then  come  two  thoughts  of  sadness,  the 
"moaning  of  the  bar,"  the  "sadness  of  farewell,"  from 
which  the  voyager  prays  to  be  delivered.  The  answer 
follows  in  the  two  pictures  of  peace  and  joy, — the 
full,  calm  tide  bearing  him  homeward,  —  the  vision  of 
the  unseen  Pilot  who  has  guided  and  will  guide  him 
to  the  end  of  his  voyage.  Every  image  in  the  poem 
is  large  and  serene.  Every  word  is  simple,  clear,  har- 
monious. 

The  movement  of  a  very  different  kind  of  music  — 
martial,  sonorous,  thrilling — may  be  heard  in  "The 
Charge  of  the  Heavy  Brigade." 

Up  the  hill,  up  the  hill,  up  the  hill, 
Follow' d  the  Heavy  Brigade, — 


INTRODUCTION 

reproduces  with  extraordinary  force  the  breathless, 
toilsome,  thundering  assault. 

His  verse  often  seems  to  adapt  itself  to  his  mean- 
ing with  an  almost  magical  effect.  Thus,  in  the  Wel- 
lington Ode,  when  the  spirit  of  Nelson  welcomes  the 
great  warrior  to  his  tomb  in  St.  Paul's, — 

Who  is  he  that  cometh,  like  an  honour  d  guest, 

With  banner  and  with  music,  ivith  soldier  and  with  priest, 

With  a  nation  weeping,  and  breaking  on  my  rest? — 

we  can  almost  hear  the  funeral  march  and  see  the  vast, 
sorrowful  procession.  In  "Locksley  Hall,"  — 

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote  on  all  the  chords 

with  might; 
Smote  the  chord  of  Self,  that,  trembling,  pass'd  in  music 

out  of  sight, — 

what  value  there  is  in  the  word  "trembling"  and  in 
the  slight  secondary  pause  that  follows  it;  how  the 
primary  pause  in  the  preceding  bar,  dividing  it,  em- 
phasizes the  word  "Self."  In  The  Princess  there  is  a 
line  describing  one  of  the  curious  Chinese  ornaments 
in  which  a  series  of  openwork  balls  are  carved  one 
inside  of  another:  — 

Laborious  orient  ivory  sphere  in  sphere. 

One  can  almost  see  the  balls  turning  and  glisten- 
ing. In  the  poem  "To  Virgil"  there  is  a  verse  prais- 
ing the  great  Mantuan's  lordship  over  language:  — 

All  the  charm  of  all  the  Muses  often  flowering  in  a 
lonely  word. 

[  xci  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

This  illustrates  the  very  quality  that  it  describes. 
''Flowering"  is  the  magical  word. 

But  it  is  not  so  often  the  "lonely  word"  that  is 
wonderful  in  Tennyson,  as  it  is  the  company  of  words 
which  blossom  together  in  colour-harmony,  the  air  of 
lucid  beauty  that  envelops  the  many  features  of  a  land- 
scape and  blends  them  in  a  perfect  picture.  This  is 
his  peculiar  charm;  and  it  is  illustrated  in  many 
passages,  but  nowhere  better  than  in  In  Memoriam, 
Ixxxvi,  — 

Sweet  after  showers,  ambrosial  air, 

That  rollestfrom  the  gorgeous  gloom 
Of  evening  over  brake  and  bloom 

And  meadow, — 

and  in  the  perfect  description  of  autumn's  sad  tran- 
quillity, Section  xi, — 

Calm  on  the  seas,  and  silver  sleep, 

And  waves  that  sway  themselves  in  rest, 
And  dead  calm  in  that  noble  breast 

Which  heaves  but  with  the  heaving  deep. 

2.  Tennyson's  closeness  of  observation,  fidelity  of 
description,  and  felicity  of  expression  in  nature-poe- 
try have  often  been  praised.  In  spite  of  his  near- 
sightedness  he  saw  things  with  great  clearness  and 
accuracy.  All  his  senses  seem  to  have  been  alert  and 
true.  In  this  respect  he  was  better  fitted  to  be  an 
observer  than  Wordsworth,  in  whom  the  colour-sense 
was  not  especially  vivid,  and  whose  poetry  shows  little 
or  no  evidence  of  the  sense  of  fragrance,  although  his 
ears  caught  sounds  with  wonderful  fineness  and  his 

[  xcii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

eyes  were  quick  to  note  forms  and  movements.  Bay- 
ard Taylor  once  took  a  walk  with  Tennyson  in  the 
Isle  of  Wight,  and  afterward  wrote:  "During  the  con- 
versation with  which  we  beguiled  the  way  I  was  struck 
with  the  variety  of  his  knowledge.  Not  a  little  flower 
on  the  downs,  which  the  sheep  had  spared,  escaped 
his  notice,  and  the  geology  of  the  coast,  both  terres- 
trial and  submarine,  was  perfectly  familiar  to  him.  I 
remembered  the  remark  I  once  heard  from  the  lips 
of  a  distinguished  English  author  [Thackeray],  that 
'Tennyson  was  the  wisest  man  he  knew,'  and  could 
well  believe  that  he  was  sincere  in  making  it." 

But  Tennyson's  relation  to  nature  differed  from 
Wordsworth's  in  another  respect  than  that  which  has 
been  mentioned,  and  one  in  which  the  advantage  lies 
with  the  earlier  poet.  Wordsworth  had  a  personal  in- 
timacy with  nature,  a  confiding  and  rejoicing  faith  in 
her  unity,  her  life,  and  her  deep  beneficence,  which 
made  him  able  to  say:  — 

"  This  prayer  I  make, 
Knowing  that  Nature  never  did  betray 
The  heart  that  laved  her:  'tis  her  privilege, 
Through  all  the  years  of  this  our  life,  to  lead 
From  joy  to  joy :  for  she  can  so  inform 
The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  impress 
With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 
With  lofty  tlwughts,  that  neither  evil  tongues, 
Rash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of  selfish  men. 
Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,  nor  all 
The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life, 
Shall  e'er  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb 

[  xciii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

Our  cheerful  faith,  that  all  which  we  behold 
Is  full  of  blessings." 

There  is  no  utterance  like  this  in  Tennyson's  poe- 
try. He  had  not  a  profound  and  permanent  sense  of 
that  "something  far  more  deeply  interfused"  in  na- 
ture which  gives  her  a  consoling,  liberating,  nourish- 
ing power,  —  a  maternal  power.  In  "Enoch  Arden" 
the  solitude  of  nature,  even  in  her  richest  beauty,  is 
terrible.  In  "locksley  Hall"  the  disappointed  lover 
calls  not  on  Mother-Nature,  but  on  his  "Mother- 
Age,"  the  age  of  progress,  of  advancing  knowledge, 
to  comfort  and  help  him.  In  Maud  the  unhappy  hero 
says,  not  that  he  will  turn  to  nature,  but  that  he  will 
fbury  himself  in  his  books.'  Whether  it  was  because 
Tennyson  saw  the  harsher,  sterner  aspects  of  nature 
more  clearly  than  Wordsworth  did,  or  because  he  had 
more  scientific  knowledge,  or  because  he  was  less  sim- 
ple and  serene,  it  remains  true  that  he  did  not  have 
that  steady  and  glad  confidence  in  her  vital  relation 
to  the  spirit  of  man,  that  overpowering  joy  in  surren- 
der to  her  purifying  and  moulding  influence,  which 
Wordsworth  expressed  in  the  "  Lines  composed  a  few 
miles  above  Tintern  Abbey,"  in  1798,  and  in  "De- 
votional Incitements"  in  1832,  and  in  many  other  po- 
ems written  between  these  dates.  Yet  it  must  be 
observed  that  Wordsworth  himself,  in  later  life,  felt 
some  abatement  of  his  unquestioning  and  all-sufficing 
faith  in  nature,  or  at  least  admitted  the  need  of  some- 
thing beside  her  ministry  to  satisfy  all  the  wants  of 
the  human  spirit.  For  in  "An  Evening  Voluntary" 
(1834),  he  writes:— 

[  xciv  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

"  By  grace  divine, 
Not  otherwise,  0  Nature!  are  we  thine." 

Mr.  Stopford  Brooke  has  observed  that  the  poetry 
of  both  Scott  and  Byron  contains  many  utterances  of 
delight  in  the  wild  and  solitary  aspects  of  nature, 
and  that  we  find  little  or  nothing  of  this  kind  in 
Tennyson.  From  this  Mr.  Brooke  infers  that  he  had 
less  real  love  of  nature  for  her  own  sake  than  the  two 
poets  named.  The  inference  is  not  well  grounded. 

Both  Scott  and  Byron  were  very  dependent  upon 
social  pleasure  for  their  enjoyment  of  life,  —  much 
more  so  than  Tennyson.  Any  one  who  will  read  By- 
ron's letters  may  judge  how  far  his  professed  passion 
for  the  solitudes  of  the  ocean  and  the  Alps  was  sin- 
cere, and  how  far  it  was  a  pose.  Indeed,  in  one  place, 
if  I  mistake  not,  he  maintains  the  theory  that  it  is 
the  presence  of  man's  work  —  the  ship  on  the  ocean, 
the  city  among  the  hills — that  lends  the  chief  charm 
to  nature. 

Tennyson  was  one  of  the  few  great  poets  who  have 
proved  their  love  of  nature  by  living  happily  in  the 
country.  From  boyhood  up  he  was  well  content  to 
spend  long,  lonely  days  by  the  seashore,  in  the  woods, 
on  the  downs.  It  is  true  that  as  a  rule  his  tempera- 
ment found  more  joy  in  rich  landscapes  and  gardens 
of  opulent  bloom,  than  in  the  wild,  the  savage,  the 
desolate.  But  no  man  who  was  not  a  true  lover  of  na- 
ture for  her  own  sake  could  have  written  the  "Ode 
to  Memory,"  or  this  stanza  from  "Early  Spring":  — 

The  woods  with  living  airs 
How  softly  fann  d, 


INTRODUCTION 

Light  airs  from  where  the  deep, 

All  down  the  sand, 
Is  breathing  in  his  sleep, 

Heard  by  the  land. 

Nor  is  there  any  lack  of  feeling  for  the  sublime  in  such 
a  poem  as  "The  Voice  and  the  Peak":  — 

The  voice  and  the  Peak 

Far  over  summit  and  lanm, 
The  lone  glow  and  long  roar 

Green-rushing  from  the  rosy  thrones 
of  dawn  ! 

It  would  be  easy  to  fill  many  pages  with  illustra- 
tions of  Tennyson's  extraordinary  vividness  of  per- 
ception and  truthfulness  of  description  in  regard  to 
nature.  He  excels,  first  of  all,  in  delicate  pre-Ra- 
phaelite  work,  —  the  painting  of  the  flowers  in  the 
meadow,  the  buds  on  the  trees,  the  movements  of 
waves  and  streams,  the  birds  at  rest  and  on  the  wing. 
Looking  at  the  water,  he  sees  the 

Little  breezes  dusk  and  shiver 
Thro'  the  wave  that  runs  for  ever 
By  the  island  in  the  river 

Flowing  down  to  Camelot. 

[The  Lady  of  Shalott.} 

With  a  single  touch  he  gives  the  aspect  of  the  mill 
stream: — 

The  sleepy  pool  above  the  dam, 
The  pool  beneath  it  never  still. 

[  The  Miller's  Daughter.  ] 
[  xcvi  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

He  shows  us 

a  shoal 

Of  darting  Jish,  that  on  a  summer  morn 
Adown  the  crystal  dykes  at  Camelot 
•  Come  slipping  o'er  their  shadows  on  the  sand, 
But  if  a  man  who  stands  upon  the  brink 
But  lift  a  shining  hand  against  the  sun, 
There  is  not  left  the  twinkle  of  a  Jin 
Betwixt  the  cressy  islets  white  injiower. 

[Geraint  and  Enid.] 
He  makes  us  see 

the  waterfall 
Which  ever  sounds  and  shines, 

A  pillar  of  white  light  upon  the  wall 
Of  purple  cliffs,  aloof  descried. 

[Ode  to  Memory.] 

He  makes  us  hear,  through  the  nearer  voice  of  the 
stream, 

The  drumming  thunder  of  the  huger  fall 

At  distance, 

[Geraint  and  Enid.] 
or 

The  scream  of  a  madden  d  beach  dragg'd  down 

by  the  wave. 

[Maud.] 

Does  he  speak  of  trees?  He  knows  the  difference 
between  the  poplars' 

noise  of  falling  showers, 

[Elaine.] 
and 

The  dry-tongued  laurels'  pattering  talk, 

[Maud.] 
[  xcvii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 
and  the  voice  of  the  cedar, 

sighing  for  Lebanon, 
In  the  long  breeze  that  streams  to  thy  delicious  East. 

[Maud.} 
He  sees  how 

A  million  emeralds  break  from  the  ruby-budded  lime, 

[Maud.} 
and  how  the  chestnut-buds  begin 

To  spread  into  the  perfect  fan 
Above  the  teeming  ground. 

[Sir  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guinevere.} 

He  has  watched  the  hunting-dog  in  its  restless 
sleep, — 

Like  a  dog,  he  hunts  in  dreams,  — 

[Locksley  Hall.} 

and  noted  how  the  lonely  heron,  at  sundown, 

forgets  his  melancholy, 

Lets  down  his  other  leg,  and  stretching  dreams 
Of  goodly  supper  in  the  distant  pool. 

[Gareth  and  Lynette.} 
There  is  a  line  in  In  Memoriam, — 

Flits  by  the  sea-blue  bird  of  March, — 

which  Tennyson  meant  to  describe  the  kingfisher.  A 
friend  criticised  it  and  said  that  some  other  bird  must 
have  been  intended,  because  "the  kingfisher  shoots 
by,  flashes  by,  but  never  flits."  But,  in  fact,  to  Jlit, 
which  means  "to  move  lightly  and  swiftly,"  is  pre- 
cisely the  word  for  the  motion  of  this  bird,  as  it  darts 
along  the  stream  with  even  wing-strokes,  shifting  its 
[  xcviii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

place  from  one  post  to  another.  Tennyson  gives  both 
the  colour  and  the  flight  of  the  kingfisher  with  abso- 
lute precision. 

But  it  is  not  only  in  this  pre-Raphaelite  work  that 
his  extraordinary  skill  is  shown.  He  has  also  the  power 
of  rendering  vague,  wide  landscapes,  under  the  men- 
acing shadow  of  a  coming  storm,  in  the  calm  of  an 
autumnal  morning,  or  in  the  golden  light  of  sunset. 
Almost  always  such  landscapes  are  coloured  by  the 
prevailing  emotion  or  sentiment  of  the  poem.  Tenny- 
son holds  with  Coleridge  that  much  of  what  we  see 
in  nature  is  the  reflection  of  our  own  life,  our  inmost 
feelings :  — 

"Ours  is  her  wedding-garment,  ours  her  shroud." 

In  "The  Gardener's  Daughter/'  Tennyson  describes 
the  wedding-garment:  — 

All  the  land  in  flowery  squares, 
Beneath  a  broad  and  equal-blowing  wind, 
Smelt  of  the  coming  summer,  as  one  large  cloud 
Drew  downward ;  but  all  else  of  heaven  was  pure 
Up  to  the  sun,  and  May  from  verge  to  verge t 
And  May  with  me  from  head  to  heel. 

But  in  "Guinevere,"  it  is  the  shroud:  — 

For  all  abroad, 

Beneath  a  moon  unseen  albeit  at  full, 
The  white  mist,  like  a  face-cloth  to  the  face, 
Clung  to  the  dead  earth,  and  the  land  nas  still. 

3.  The  wide  range  of  human  sympathy  in  Tenny- 
son's  work  is  most  remarkable.  The  symbolic  poem, 
"Merlin  and  The  Gleam"  (p.  258),  describes  his  po- 
[  xcix  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

etic  life.  Following  the  Gleam, — "the  higher  poetic 
imagination/'  —  he  passes  from  fairy-land  into  the 
real  world  and  interprets  the  characters  and  conflicts, 
the  labours  and  longings,  of  all  sorts  and  conditions  of 
men.  He  speaks  for  childhood  in  "The  May  Queen" 
and  "In  the  Children's  Hospital";  for  motherhood  in 
"Rizpah"  and  "Demeter";  for  seamen  in  "The  Re- 
venge" and  "Columbus"  and  "The  Voyage  of  Mael- 
dune"  and  "Enoch  Arden";  for  soldiers  in  "The 
Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade"  and  "The  Charge  of  the 
Heavy  Brigade"  and  "The  Defence  of  Lucknow"; 
for  philosophers  in  "Lucretius"  and  "The  Ancient 
Sage";  for  the  half-crazed  ascetic  in  "St.  Simeon 
Stylites,"  and  for  the  fearless  reformer  in  "Sir  John 
Oldcastle";  for  the  painter  in  " Romney's  Remorse"; 
for  the  rustic  in  the  "Northern  Farmer" ;  for  religious 
enthusiasm,  active,  in  "Sir  Galahad,"  and  passive,  in 
"St.  Agnes'  Eve";  for  peasant  life  in  "Dora,"  and  for 
princely  life  in  "The  Day  Dream";  for  lovers  of  dif- 
ferent types  in  "Maud,"  and  "Locksley  Hall,"  and 
"Aylmer's  Field,"  and  "Love  and  Duty,"  and  "Happy," 
and  "CEnone,"  and  "The  Lover's  Tale,"  and  "Lady 
Clare." 

He  is  not,  it  must  be  admitted,  quite  as  deep,  as 
inward,  as  searching  as  Wordsworth  is  in  some  of  his 
peasant  portraits.  There  is  a  revealing  touch  in  "Mi- 
chael," in  "Margaret,"  in  "Resolution  and  Independ- 
ence," to  which  Tennyson  rarely,  if  ever,  attains. 
Nor  is  there  as  much  individuality  and  intensity  in 
his  pictures  as  we  find  in  the  best  of  Browning's  dra- 
matis personce,  like  "Saul"  and  "  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra,"  and . 
"Andrea  del  Sarto,"  and  "The  Flight  of  the  Duch- 


INTRODUCTION 

ess."  Tennyson  brings  out  in  his  characters  that  which 
is  most  natural  and  normal.  He  does  not  delight,  as 
Browning  does,  in  discovering  the  strange,  the  eccen- 
tric. Nor  has  he  Browning's  extraordinary  acquaint- 
ance with  the  technical  details  of  different  arts  and 
trades,  and  with  the  singular  features  of  certain  ep- 
ochs of  history,  like  the  Renaissance. 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  if  Tennyson  has  less  intel- 
lectual curiosity  in  his  work,  he  has  more  emotional 
sympathy.  His  characters  are  conceived  on  broader 
lines;  they  are  more  human  and  typical.  Even  when 
he  finds  his  subject  in  some  classic  myth,  it  is  the  hu- 
man element  that  he  brings  out.  This  is  the  thing  that 
moves  him.  He  studies  the  scene,  the  period,  carefully 
and  closely  in  order  to  get  the  atmosphere  of  time  and 
place.  But  these  are  subordinate.  The  main  interest, 
for  him,  lies  in  the  living  person  into  whose  place  he 
puts  himself  and  with  whose  voice  he  speaks.  Thus  in 
"Tithonus"  he  dwells  on  the  loneliness  of  one  who 
must  "vary  from  the  kindly  race  of  men"  since  the  gift 
of  "cruel  immortality"  has  been  conferred  upon  him. 
In"Demeter  and  Persephone  "the  most  beautiful  pas- 
sage is  that  in  which  the  goddess-mother  tells  of  her 
yearning  for  her  lost  child. 

4.  Tennyson's  work  is  marked  by  frequent  reference 
to  the  scientific  discoveries  and  social  movements  of 
his  age.  Wordsworth's  prophetic  vision  of  the  time 
"when  the  discoveries  of  the  chemist,  the  botanist, 
or  mineralogist,  will  be  as  proper  objects  of  the  poet's 
art  as  any  upon  which  it  can  be  employed,"  because 
these  things  and  the  relations  under  which  they  are 
contemplated  will  be  so  familiarized  that  we  shall  see 
[  ci  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

that  they  are  "parts  of  our  life  as  enjoying  and  suf- 
fering beings," — this  prediction  of  the  advent  of  sci- 
ence, transfigured  by  poetry,  as  "a  dear  and  genuine 
inmate  of  the  household  of  man,"  was  fulfilled,  at  least 
in  part,  in  the  poetry  of  Tennyson. 

In  "The  Two  Voices"  Tennyson  alludes  to  modern 
osteology :  — 

Before  the  little  ducts  began 

To  feed  thy  bones  with  lime,  and  ran 

Their  course,  till  thou  wert  also  man. 

In  the  twenty-first  section  of  In  Memoriam  he  prob- 
ably alludes  to  the  discovery  of  the  satellite  of  Nep- 
tune :  — 

'  When  Science  reaches  forth  her  arms 
To  feel  from  world  to  world,  and  charms 
Her  secret  from  the  latest  moon.' 

In  the  twenty-fourth  section  he  speaks  of  sun-spots:  — 

The  very  source  and  fount  of  Day 
Is  dash'd  with  wandering  isles  of  night. 

In  the  thirty-fifth  section  he  alludes  to  the  process  of 
denudation:  — 

The  sound  of  streams  that  swift  or  slow 
Draw  down  JEonian  hills,  and  sow 
The  dust  of  continents  to  be. 

The  nebular  hypothesis  of  Laplace  and  the  theory 
of  evolution  are  conceived  and  expressed  with  won- 
derful imaginative  power  in  the  one  hundred   and 
eighteenth  section.  In  the  fourth  section  a  subtle  fact 
[  cii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

of  physical  science  is  translated  into  an  image  of  po- 
etic beauty: — 

Break,  thou  deep  vase  of  chilling  tears, 
That  grief  hath  shaken  into  frost ! 

"Locksley  Hall"  is  full  of  echoes  of  the  scientific 
inventions  and  the  social  hopes  of  the  mid-century. 
In  "Locksley  Hall  Sixty  Years  After"  the  old  man 
speaks,  with  disenchanted  spirit,  of  the  failure  of 
many  of  these  hopes  and  the  small  value  of  many  of 
these  inventions,  but  he  still  holds  to  the  vision  of 
human  progress  guided  by  a  divine,  unseen  Power:  — 

When  the  schemes  and  all  the  systems,  Kingdoms  and  Re- 
publics fall, 

Something  kindlier,  higher,  holier,  —  all  for  each  and  each 
for  all? 

All  the  full-brain,  half -brain  races,  led  by  Justice,  Love, 

and  Truth; 
All  the  millions  one  at  length  ivith  all  the  visions  of  my 

youth  ? 

Earth  at  last  a  warless  world,  a  single  race,  a  single 

tongue — 
/  have  seen  her  far  away — for  is  not  Earth  as  yet  so 

young  ? 

Every  tiger  madness  muzzled,  every  serpent  passion  kill'd, 
Every  grim  ravine  a  garden,  every  blazing  desert  till'd, 

Robed  in  universal  harvest  up  to  either  pole  she  smiles, 
Universal  ocean  softly  washing  all  her  warless  Isles. 

[  ciii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

5.  As  in  its  form,  so  in  its  spirit,  the  poetry  of  Ten- 
nyson is  marked  by  a  constant  and  controlling  sense 
of  law  and  order.  He  conceives  the  universe  under 
the  sway  of  great  laws,  physical  and  moral,  which  are 
in  themselves  harmonious  and  beautiful,  as  well  as 
universal.  Disorder,  discord,  disaster,  come  from  the 
violation  of  these  laws.  Beauty  lies  not  in  contrast 
but  in  concord.  The  noblest  character  is  not  that  in 
which  a  single  faculty  or  passion  is  raised  to  the  high- 
est pitch,  but  that  in  which  the  balance  of  the  pow- 
ers is  kept,  and  the  life  unfolds  itself  in  a  well- 
rounded  fulness:  — 

That  mind  and  soul,  according  well, 
May  make  one  music  as  before, 
But  vaster. 

Such  is  the  character  which  is  drawn  from  memory 
in  the  description  of  Arthur  Hallam  in  In  Memoriam; 
and  from  imagination  in  the  picture  of  King  Arthur 
in  the  Idylls. 

Tennyson  belongs  in  the  opposite  camp  from  the 
poets  of  revolt.  To  him  such  a  vision  of  the  swift 
emancipation  of  society  as  Shelley  gives  in  "Prome- 
theus Unbound,"  or  "The  Revolt  of  Islam,"  was  not 
merely  impossible ;  it  was  wildly  absurd,  a  dangerous 
dream.  His  faith  in  the  advance  of  mankind  rested  on 
two  bases;  first,  his  intuitive  belief  in  the  benevolence 
of  the  general  order  of  the  universe: — 

Oh  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good 
Will  be  the  Jinal goal  of  ill:  — 

and  second,  his  practical  confidence  in  the  success  — 

[  civ  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

or  at  least  in  the  immediate  usefulness — of  the  efforts 
of  men  to  make  the  world  around  them  better  little 
by  little.  Evolution,  not  revolution,  was  his  watch- 
word. 

Yet  I  doubt  not  thro'  the  ages  one  increasing  purpose  runs, 

is  his  cry  in  the  first  "Locksley  Hall";  and  in  the  sec- 
ond he  says, 

Follow  Light,  and  do  the  Right — for  man  can  half-con- 
trol his  doom — 
Till  you  see  the  deathless  Angel  seated  in  the  vacant  tomb. 

In  the  patriotic  poems  we  find  that  Tennyson's  love 
of  country  is  sane,  sober,  steadfast,  thoughtful.  He 
dislikes  the  "blind  hysterics  of  the  Celt,"  and  fears 
the  red  "fool-fury  of  the  Seine."  He  praises  England 
as 

A  land  of  settled  government, 

A  land  of  old  and  just  renown, 
Where  freedom  slowly  broadens  down 
From  precedent  to  precedent. 

His  favourite  national  heroes  are  of  the  Anglo-Saxon 
type,  sturdy,  resolute,  self-contained,  following  the 
path  of  duty.  He  rejoices  not  only  in  the  service  which 
England  has  rendered  to  the  cause  of  law-encircled 
liberty,  but  in  the  way  in  which  she  has  rendered  it:  — 

Whatever  harmonies  of  law 

The  growing  world  assume, 
Thy  work  is  thine — The  single  note 
From  that  deep  chord  which  Hampden  smote 

Will  vibrate  to  the  doom. 

[cv] 


INTRODUCTION 

He  praises  the  peaceful  reformer  as  the  chief  bene- 
factor of  his  country:  — 

Not  he  that  breaks  the  dams,  but  he 

That  thro'  the  channels  of  the  State 
Convoys  the  people's  tvish,  is  great; 

His  name  is  pure,  his  fame  is  free. 

[Contributed  to  the  Shakespearean  Show-Book,  1884.] 

He  is  a  republican  at  heart,  holding  that  the  Queen's 
throne  must  rest 

Broad-based,  upon  her  people's  will, 

[To  the  Queen.] 

and  he  does  not  hesitate  to  express  his  confidence  in 

our  slowly-grown 

And  crown'd  Republic's  crowning  common-sense. 
[Epilogue  to  Idylls  of  the  King.] 

But  he  has  no  faith  in  the  unguided  and  ungoverned 
mob.  He  calls  Freedom 

Thou  loather  of  the  lawless  crown 
As  of  the  lawless  crowd. 

[Freedom,  1884.] 

It  has  been  said  that  his  poetry  shows  no  trace  of 
sympathy  with  the  struggles  of  the  people  to  resist 
tyranny  and  defend  their  liberties  with  the  sword. 
This  is  not  true.  In  one  of  his  earliest  sonnets  he 
speaks  with  enthusiasm  of  Poland's  fight  for  freedom, 
and  in  one  of  his  latest  he  hails  the  same  spirit  and 
the  same  effort  in  Montenegro.  In  "The  Third  of 
February,  1852,"  he  expresses  his  indignation  at  the 
coup  d'etat  by  which  Louis  Napoleon  destroyed  the 


INTRODUCTION 

French  Republic,  and  praises  the  revolutions  which 
overthrew  Charles  I  and  James  II.  He  dedicates  a 
sonnet  to  Victor  Hugo,  the  "stormy  voice  of  France." 
With  the  utmost  deliberation  and  distinctness  he  jus- 
tifies the  cause  of  the  colonies  in  the  American  Revo- 
lution: once  in  "England  and  America  in  1782,"  and 
again  in  the  ode  for  the  "Opening  of  the  Indian  and 
Colonial  Exhibition,"  1886. 

It  has  been  said  that  he  has  no  sympathy  with  the 
modern  idea  of  the  patriotism  of  humanity,  —  that  his 
love  of  his  own  country  hides  from  him  the  vision  of 
universal  liberty  and  brotherhood.  This  is  not  true. 
He  speaks  of  it  in  many  places,  —  in  "Locksley  Hall," 
in  "Victor  Hugo,"  in  "The  Making  of  Man," — and 
in  the  "Ode  sung  at  the  Opening  of  the  Interna- 
tional Exhibition,"  1861,  he  urges  free  commerce  and 
peaceful  cooperation  among  the  nations: — 

Till  each  manjind  his  own  in  all  men's  good, 
And  all  men  work  in  noble  brotherhood, 
Breaking  their  mailed  Jleets  and  armed  towers, 
And  ruling  by  obeying  Nature's  powers, 
And  gathering  all  the  fruits  of  earth  and  crown  d 
with  all  her  jlowers. 

It  may  be,  as  the  Rev.  Stopford  Brooke  says  in  his 
book  on  Tennyson,  that  this  view  of  things  is  less 
"poetic"  than  that  which  is  presented  by  the  poets 
of  revolt,  that  it  "lowers  the  note  of  beauty,  of  fire, 
of  aspiration,  of  passion."  But  after  all,  it  was  Tenny- 
son's real  view  and  he  could  not  well  deny  or  conceal 
it.  The  important  question  is  whether  it  is  true  and 
just.  And  that  is  the  first  question  which  a  great  poet 
[  cvii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

asks.  He  does  not  lend  himself  to  the  proclamation 
of  follies  and  falsehoods,  however  fiery,  merely  for 
the  sake  of  being  more  "poetic." 

In  Tennyson's  love  poems,  while  there  is  often  an 
intensity  of  passion,  there  is  also  a  singular  purity  of 
feeling,  a  sense  of  reverence  for  the  mystery  of  love, 
and  a  profound  loyalty  to  the  laws  which  it  is  bound 
to  obey  in  a  harmonious  and  well-ordered  world.  True, 
he  takes  the  romantic,  rather  than  the  classical,  at- 
titude towards  love.  It  comes  secretly,  suddenly,  by 
inexplicable  ways.  It  is  irresistible,  absorbing,  the 
strongest  as  well  as  the  most  precious  thing  in  the 
world.  But  he  does  not  therefore  hold  that  it  is  a  thing 
apart  from  the  rest  of  life,  exempt,  uncontrollable, 
lawless.  On  the  contrary,  it  should  be,  in  its  perfec- 
tion, at  once  the  inspiration  and  the  consummation 
of  all  that  is  best  in  life.  In  love,  truth  and  honour 
and  fidelity  and  courage  and  unselfishness  should 
come  to  flower. 

There  is  none  of  the  iridescence  of  decadent  eroto- 
mania in  Tennyson's  love  poetry.  The  fatal  shame  of 
that  morbid  and  consuming  feverof  the  flesh  is  touched 
in  the  description  of  the  madness  of  Lucretius,  in 
"Balin  and  Balan,"  and  in  "Merlin  and  Vivien";  but 
it  is  done  in  a  way  that  reveals  the  essential  hateful- 
ness  of  lubricity. 

There  is  no  lack  of  warmth  and  bright  colour  in 
the  poems  which  speak  of  true  love ;  but  it  is  the  glow 
of  health  instead  of  the  hectic  flush  of  disease;  not 
the  sickly  hues  that  mask  the  surface  of  decay,  but 
the  livelier  iris  that  the  spring-time  brings  to  the 
neck  of  the  burnished  dove. 

[  cviii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

He  does  not  fail  to  see  the  tragedies  of  love.  There 
is  the  desperate  ballad  of  "Oriana,"  the  sombre  story 
of  "Aylmer's  Field,"  the  .picture  of  the  forsaken  Ma- 
riana in  her  moated  grange,  the  pathetic  idyll  of 
Elaine  who  died  for  love  of  Lancelot.  But  the  tragic 
element  in  these  poems  comes  from  the  thwarting  of 
love  by  circumstance,  not  from  anything  shameful  or 
lawless  in  the  passion  itself. 

In  "The  Gardener's  Daughter"  the  story  of  a  pure 
and  simple  love  is  told  with  a  clean  rapture  that 
seems  to  make  earth  and  sky  glow  with  new  beauty, 
and  with  a  reticence  that  speaks  not  of  shallow  feel- 
ing, but  of  reverent  emotion,  refusing  to  fling  open 

the  doors  that  bar 
The  secret  bridal  chambers  of  the  heart. 

In  The  Princess,  at  the  end,  triumphant  love  rises 
to  the  height  of  prophecy,  foretelling  the  harmony  of 
manhood  and  womanhood  in  the  world's  great  bri- 
dals:— 

'Dear,  but  let  us  type  them  now 
In  our  own  lives,  and  this  proud  watchword  rest 
Of  equal;  seeing  either  sex  alone 
Is  half  itself ,  and  in  true  marriage  lies 
Nor  equal,  nor  unequal:  each  fulfils 
Defect  in  each,  and  always  thought  in  thought, 
Purpose  in  purpose,  will  in  will,  they  grow, 
The  single  pure  and  perfect  animal, 
The  two-cell 'd  heart  beating,  with  one  full  stroke, 
Life.' 

There  are  two  of  Tennyson's  poems  in  which  the 
subject  of  love  is  treated  in  very  different  ways,  but 

[  cix  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

with  an  equally  close  and  evident  relation  to  the 
sense  of  harmony  and  law  which  pervades  his  poetry. 
In  one  of  them,  it  seems  to  me,  the  treatment  is 
wonderfully  successful;  the  poet  makes  good  his  de- 
sign. In  the  other,  I  think,  he  comes  a  little  short  of 
it  and  leaves  us  unsatisfied  and  questioning. 

Maud  is  among  the  most  purely  impassioned  pre- 
sentations of  a  love-story  since  Shakespeare's  Romeo 
and  Juliet.  It  not  only  tells  in  music  the  growth  of  a 
deep,  strong,  absorbing  love,  victorious  over  obsta- 
cles, but  it  shows  the  redeeming,  ennobling  power 
of  such  a  passion,  which  leads  the  selfish  hero  out  of 
his  bitterness  and  narrowness  and  makes  him  able  at 
the  last  to  say, 

Comfort  her,  comfort  her,  all  things  good, 

While  1  am  over  the  sea  ! 

Let  me  and  my  passionate  love  go  by, 

But  speak  to  her  all  things  holy  and  high, 

Whatever  happen  to  me! 

Me  and  my  harmful  love  go  by ; 

But  come  to  her  waking,  Jind  her  asleep, 

Powers  of  the  height,  Powers  of  the  deep, 

And  comfort  her  tho'  I  die. 

The  tragedy  of  the  poem  is  wrought  not  by  love,  but 
by  another  passion,  lawless,  discordant,  uncontrolled, 
—  the  passion  of  proud  hatred  which  brings  about  the 
quarrel  with  Maud's  brother,  the  fatal  duel,  her  death, 
the  exile  and  madness  of  her  lover.  But  the  poem  does 
not  end  in  darkness,  after  all,  for  he  awakes  again  to 
"the  better  mind,"  and  the  love  whose  earthly  con- 
summation his  own  folly  has  marred  abides  with  him 
[  ex  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

as  the  inspiration  of  a  nobler  life.  The  hero  may  be 
wrong  in  thinking  that  the  Crimean  War  is  to  be  a 
blessing  to  England  and  to  the  world.  But  he  is  surely 
right  in  saying, 

It  is  belter  tojight  for  the  good  than  to  rail  at  the  ill. 

In  the  Idylls  of  the  King  there  are  two  main  threads 
of  love  running  through  the  many-figured  tapestry: 
Arthur's  love  for  Guinevere,  loyal,  royal,  but  some- 
what cold  and  ineffectual:  Guinevere's  love  for  Lance- 
lot, disloyal  and  untrue,  but  warm  and  potent.  It  is 
the  secret  influence  of  this  lawless  passion,  infecting 
the  court,  that  breaks  up  the  Round  Table,  and 
biings  the  kingdom  to  ruin  and  the  King  to  his  de- 
feat. In  "Guinevere"  Tennyson  departs  from  the  story 
as  it  is  told  by  Malory  and  introduces  a  scene  entirely 
of  his  own  invention:  the  last  interview  between  Ar- 
thur, on  his  way  to  "that  great  battle  in  the  west," 
and  the  fallen  Queen,  hiding  in  the  convent  at  Almes- 
bury.  It  is  a  very  noble  scene;  noble  in  its  setting  in 
the  moon-swathed  pallor  of  the  dead  winter  night; 
noble  in  its  austere  splendour  of  high  diction  and 
slow-moving  verse,  intense  with  solemn  passion,  bare 
to  the  heart;  noble  in  its  conception  of  the  King's 
god-like  forgiveness  and  of  Guinevere's  remorse  and 
agony  of  shame,  too  late  to  countervail  the  harm  that 
she  had  done  on  earth,  though  not  too  late  to  win  the 
heavenly  pardon.  All  that  Arthur  says  of  the  evil 
wrought  by  unlawful  and  reckless  love  is  true:  — 

The  children  born  of  thee  are  sword  andjire, 
Red  ruin,  and  the  breaking  up  of  laws. 

[  cxi  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

All  that  he  says  of  the  crime  that  it  would  be  to  con- 
done the  Queen's  sin,  for  the  sake  of  prudence  and 
peace,  reseating  her  in  her  place  of  light, 

The  mockery  of  my  people  and  their  bane, 

is  also  true,  though  it  seems  at  the  moment  a  little 
too  much  like  preaching.  But  there  is  one  thing  lack- 
ing,—  one  thing  that  is  necessary  to  make  the  scene 
altogether  convincing:  some  trace  of  human  sympa- 
thy in  Arthur's  "vast  pity,"  some  consciousness  of 
fault  or  failure  on  his  part  in  not  giving  Guinevere  all 
that  her  nature  needed  to  guard  her  from  the  temp- 
tations of  a  more  vivid  though  a  lower  passion.  Splen- 
did as  his  words  of  pardon  are,  and  piercingly  pathetic 
as  is  that  last  farewell  of  love,  still  loyal  though  de- 
frauded; yet  he  does  not  quite  win  us.  He  is  more 
god-like  than  it  becomes  a  man  to  be.  He  is  too  sure 
that  he  has  never  erred,  too  conscious  that  he  is 
above  weakness  or  reproach.  We  remember  the  lonely 
Lancelot  in  his  desolate  castle ;  we  think  of  his  cour- 
tesy, his  devotion,  his  splendid  courage,  his  winning 
tenderness,  his  ardour,  the  unwavering  passion  by 
force  of  which 

His  honour  rooted  in  dishonour  stood, 
And  faith  unfaithful  kept  him  falsely  true. 

Was  it  wonder  that  Guinevere,  seeing  the  King  ab- 
sorbed in  affairs  of  state,  remote,  abstracted,  inacces- 
sible, yielded  to  this  nearer  and  more  intimate  joy? 
Sin  it  was:  shame  it  was:  that  Tennyson  makes  us 
see  clearly.  But  how  could  it  have  been  otherwise? 
Was  not  the  breaking  of  the  law  the  revenge  that 

[  cxii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

nature  herself  took  for  a  need  unsatisfied,  a  harmony 
uncompleted  and  overlooked?  This  is  the  question 
that  remains  unanswered  at  the  close  of  the  Idylls  of 
the  King.  And  therefore  I  think  the  poem  unsatisfac- 
tory in  its  treatment  of  love. 

But  though  Tennyson  avoids  this  question,  and  lets 
Lancelot  slip  out  of  the  poem  at  last  without  a  word, 
disappearing  like  a  shadow,  he  never  falters  in  his 
allegiance  to  his  main  principle,  —  the  supremacy  of 
law  and  order.  This  indeed  is  the  central  theme  of 
the  epic:  the  right  of  soul  to  rule  over  sense  and  the 
ruin  that  comes  when  the  relation  is  reversed.  The 
poem  ends  tragically.  But  above  the  wreck  of  a  great 
human  design  the  poet  sees  the  vision  of  a  God  who 
"fulfils  Himself  in  many  ways";  and  after  earth's 
confusions  and  defeats  he  sees  the  true-hearted  King 
enthroned  in  the  spiritual  city  and  the  repentant 
Queen  passing 

To  where  beyond  these  voices  there  is  peace, 

6.  A  religious  spirit  pervades  and  marks  the  poetry 
of  Tennyson.  His  view  of  the  world  and  of  human 
life — his  view  even  of  the  smallest  flower  that  blooms 
in  the  world  —  is  illumined  through  and  through  by 
his  faith  in  the  Divine  presence  and  goodness  and 
power.  This  faith  was  not  always  serene  and  untrou- 
bled. It  was  won  after  a  hard  conflict  with  doubt  and 
despondency,  the  traces  of  which  may  be  seen  in  such 
poems  as  "The  Two  Voices"  and  "The  Vision  of  Sin." 
But  the  issue  was  never  really  in  danger.  He  was  not 
a  doubter  seeking  to  win  a  faith.  He  was  a  believer 
defending  himself  against  misgivings,  fighting  to  hold 
[  cxiii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

fast  that  which  he  felt  to  be  essential  to  his  life.  The 
success  of  his  struggle  is  recorded  in  In  Memoriam. 
which  rises  through  suffering  and  perplexity  to  a  lofty 
and  unshaken  trust  in 

The  trut/ts  that  never  can  be  proved, 
Until  we  close  with  all  we  loved 
And  all  we  flow  from,  soul  in  soul. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  trace  in  his  religious  poems  of 
this  period  the  influence  of  the  theology  of  the  Rev. 
F.  D.  Maurice,  who  was  one  of  his  closest  friends. 
The  truths  which  Maurice  presented  most  frequently, 
such  as  the  immanence  of  God  in  nature,  man's  filial 
relation  to  Him,  the  reality  of  human  brotherhood, 
the  final  victory  of  Love;  the  difficulties  which  he 
recognized  in  connection  with  these  truths,  such  as 
the  disorders  and  conflicts  in  nature,  the  apparent 
reckless  waste  of  life,  the  sins  and 'miseries  of  man- 
kind; and  the  way  in  which  he  met  and  overcame 
these  difficulties,  not  by  abstract  reasoning,  nor  by  a 
reference  to  authority,  but  by  an  appeal  to  the  moral 
and  spiritual  necessities  and  intuitions  of  the  human 
heart,  —  all  these  are  presented  in  Tennyson's  poetry. 

In  later  life  there  seems  to  have  been  a  recurrence 
of  questionings,  shown  in  such  poems  as  "Despair," 
"De  Profundis,"  "The  Ancient  Sage,"  "Locksley 
Hall  Sixty  Years  After,"  "Vastness,"  "By  an  Evolu- 
tionist." But  this  was  not  so  much  a  conflict  arising 
from  within,  as  a  protest  against  the  tendencies  of 
what  he  called  "a  terrible  age  of  unfaith,"  an  effort 
to  maintain  the  rights  of  the  spirit  against  scientific 
materialism.  Later  still  the  serene,  triumphant  mood 
[  cxiv  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

of  the  proem  to  In  Memoriam  was  repeated  in  "  Cross- 
ing the  Bar,"  "Silent  Voices,"  "Faith,"  "The  Death  of 
the  Duke  of  Clarence,"  and  he  reposed  upon 

that  Love  which  is  and  was 
My  Father  and  my  Brother  and  my  God. 

In  spite  of  his  declared  unwillingness  to  formulate 
his  creed,  arising  partly  from  his  conviction  that 
humility  was  the  right  intellectual  attitude  in  the 
presence  of  the  great  mysteries,  and  partly  from  the 
feeling  that  men  would  not  understand  him  if  he 
tried  to  put  his  belief  into  definite  forms,  it  is  by  no 
means  impossible  to  discover  in  his  poetry  certain 
clear  and  vivid  visions  of  religious  truths  from  which 
his  poetic  life  drew  strength  and  beauty.  Three  of 
these  truths  stand  out  distinct  and  dominant. 

The  first  is  the  real,  personal,  conscious  life  of  God. 
"Take  that  away,"  said  he,  "and  you  take  away  the 
backbone  of  the  Universe."  Tennyson  is  not  a  theo- 
logical poet  like  Milton  or  Cowper,  nor  even  like 
Wordsworth  or  Browning.  But  hardly  anything  that 
he  has  written  could  have  been  written  as  it  is,  but 
for  his  underlying  faith  that  God  lives,  and  knows, 
and  loves.  This  faith  is  clearly  expressed  in  "The 
Higher  Pantheism."  It  is  not  really  pantheism  at  all, 
for  while  the  natural  world  is  regarded  as  "the  Vision 
of  Him  who  reigns,"  it  is  also  the  sign  and  symbol  that 
the  human  soul  is  distinct  from  Him.  All  things  re- 
veal Him,  but  man's  sight  and  hearing  are  darkened 
so  that  he  cannot  understand  the  revelation.  God  is 
in  all  things:  He  is  with  all  souls,  but  He  is  not  to 
be  identified  with  the  human  spirit,  which  has  "power 

[  cxv  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

to  feel  'I  am  I.'"  Fellowship  with  Him  is  to  be  sought 
and  found  in  prayer. 

Speak  to  Him  thou  for  He  hears,  and  Spirit  rvith  Spirit 

can  meet — 

Closer  is  He  than  breathing,  and  nearer  than  hands  and 
feet. 

This  confidence  in  the  reality  of  prayer  is  expressed 
in  many  of  Tennyson's  deeper  poems.  We  find  it  in 
"Enoch  Arden,"  in  "St.  Agnes'  Eve/'  in  "The  Pal- 
ace of  Art,"  in  In  Memoriam,  in  "The  Two  Voices," 
in  the  "Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Welling- 
ton," in  "Doubt  and  Prayer,"  in  "Lancelot  and 
Elaine,"  in  "Guinevere,"  in  "Morte  d' Arthur": — 

Pray  for  my  soul.  More  things  are  wrought  by  prayer 
Than  this  world  dreams  of. 

Tennyson's  optimism  was  dependent  upon  his  faith 
in  a  God  to  whom  men  can  pray.  It  was  not  a  matter 
of  temperament,  like  Browning's  optimism.  Tenny- 
son inherited  from  his  father  a  strain  of  gloomy  blood, 
a  tendency  to  despondency.  He  escaped  from  it  only 
by  learning  to  trust  in  the  Divine  wisdom  and  love:  — 

That  God  which  ever  lives  and  loves, 
One  God,  one  law,  one  element, 
And  one  far-off  divine  event, 

To  which  the  whole  creation  moves. 

The  second  truth  which  stands  out  in  the  poetry  of 
Tennyson  is  the  freedom  of  the  human  will.  This  is  a 
mystery :  — 

Our  wills  are  ours  we  know  not  hotv. 
[  cxvi  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

It  is  also  an  indubitable  reality:  — 

This  main  miracle,  that  thou  art  thou, 

With  power  on  thine  own  act  and  on  the  world. 

[De  Profundis.] 

The  existence  of  such  liberty  of  action  in  created 
beings  implies  a  self-limitation  on  the  part  of  God, 
but  it  is  essential  to  moral  responsibility  and  vital 
communion  with  the  Divine.  If  man  is  only  a  "mag- 
netic mockery,"  a  "cunning  cast  in  clay,"  he  has  no 
real  life  of  his  own,  nothing  to  give  back  to  God.  The 
joy  of  effort  and  the  glory  of  virtue  depend  upon  free- 
dom. This  is  the  meaning  of  Enid's  Song,  in  "The 
Marriage  of  Geraint":  — 

For  man  is  man  and  master  of  his  fate. 

This  is  the  central  thought  of  that  strong  little  poem 
called  "Will":— 

O  well  for  him  whose  will  is  strong! 
He  suffers,  but  he  will  not  suffer  long; 
He  suffers,  but  he  cannot  suffer  wrong. 

This  is  the  theme  of  the  last  lyric  of  In  Memoriam :  — 

0  living  will  that  shall  endure 

When  all  that  seems  shall  suffer  shock, 
Rise  in  the  spiritual  rock, 

Flow  thro'  our  deeds  and  make  them  pure. 

The  third  truth  which  is  vitally  embodied  in  Tenny- 
son's poems  is  the  assurance  of  Life  after  Death.  This 
he  believed  in  most  deeply  and  uttered  most  passion- 
ately. He  felt  that  the  present  life  would  be  poor  and 
pitiful,  almost  worthless  and  unendurable,  without 

[  cxvii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

the  hope  of  Immortality.  The  rolling  lines  of  "Vast- 
ness"  are  a  long  protest  against  the  cold  doctrine  that 
death  ends  all.  "Wages"  is  a  swift  utterance  of  the 
hope  which  inspires  Virtue:  — 

Give  her  the  wages  of  going  on,  and  not  to  die. 

The  second  "Locksley  Hall/'  the  Wellington  Ode, 
"The  May  Queen/'  "Guinevere,"  "Enoch  Arden," 
"The Deserted  House/' "The  Poet's  Song/ '"Happy," 
the  lines  on  "The  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Clarence," 
"  Silent  Voices,"  —  it  is  not  possible  to  enumerate  the 
poems  in  which  the  clear  faith  in  a  future  life  finds 
expression.  In  Memoriam  is  altogether  filled  and  glori- 
fied with  the  passion  of  Immortality:  not  a  vague  and 
impersonal  survival  in  other  forms,  but  a  continuance 
of  individual  life  beyond  the  grave :  — 

Eternal  form  shall  still  divide 
The  eternal  soul  from  all  beside, 
And  I  shall  know  him  when  we  meet. 

It  is  a  vain  and  idle  thing  for  men  who  are  them- 
selves indifferent  to  the  spiritual  aspects  of  life,  or 
perhaps  hostile  and  contemptuous  toward  a  religious 
view  of  the  universe,  to  declare  that  there  is  no  place 
in  poetry  for  such  subjects,  and  to  sneer  at  every  poem 
in  which  they  appear  as  "a  disguised  sermon."  No 
doubt  there  are  many  alleged  poems  dealing  with  re- 
ligion which  deserve  no  better  name :  versified  exposi- 
tions of  theological  dogma:  creeds  in  metre:  moral 
admonitions  tagged  with  rhyme;  a  weariness  to  the 
flesh.  But  so  there  are  alleged  poems  which  deal  with 
the  facts  of  the  visible  world  and  of  human  history 

[  cxviii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

in  the  same  dreary,  sapless  manner:  catalogues  of  mis- 
cellaneous trifles,  records  of  unilluminating  experiences, 
confused  impressions  of  the  insignificant,  and  unmelodi- 
ous  rhapsodies  on  subjects  as  empty  as  an  old  tin-can 
in  a  vacant  city  lot. 

It  is  not  the  presence  of  religion  that  spoils  reli- 
gious verse.  It  is  the  absence  of  poetry.  Poetry  is  vision. 
Poetry  is  music.  Poetry  is  an  overflow  of  wonder  and 
joy,  pity  and  love.  Truths  which  lie  in  the  spiritual 
realm  have  as  much  power  to  stir  the  heart  to  this 
overflow  as  truths  which  lie  in  the  physical  realm. 
There  is  an  imaginative  vision  of  the  meaning  of  re- 
ligious truths — a  swift  flashing  of  their  significance 
upon  the  inward  eye,  a  sudden  thrilling  of  then-  music 
through  the  inward  ear — which  is  as  full  of  beauty 
and  wonder,  as  potent  to  "surprise  us  by  a  fine  excess," 
as  any  possible  human  experience.  It  is  poetic  in  the 
very  highest  sense  of  the  word.  There  may  be  poetry, 
and  very  admirable  poetry,  without  it.  But  the  poet 
who  never  sees  it,  nor  sings  of  it,  in  whose  verse  there 
is  no  ray  of  light,  no  note  of  music,  from  beyond  the 
range  of  the  five  senses,  has  never  reached  the  heights 
nor  sounded  the  depths  of  human  nature. 

The  influence  of  Tennyson's  poetry  in  revealing  the 
reality  and  beauty  of  three  great  religious  beliefs — 
the  existence  of  the  Divine  Spirit  who  is  our  Father, 
the  freedom  of  the  human  will,  and  the  personal  life 
after  death — was  deep,  far-reaching,  and  potent.  He 
stood  among  the  doubts  and  conflicts  of  the  last  cen- 
tury as  a  witness  for  the  things  that  are  invisible  and 
eternal:  the  things  that  men  may  forget  if  they  will, 
but  if  they  forget  them  then-  hearts  wither,  and  the 
[  cxix  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

springs  of  inspiration  run  dry.  His  rich  and  musical 
verse  brought  a  message  of  new  cheer  and  courage  to 
the  young  men  of  that  questioning  age  who  were  fain 
to  defend  their  spiritual  heritage  against  the  invasions 
of  a'  hard  and  fierce  materialism.  In  the  vital  conflict 
for  the  enlargement  of  faith  to  embrace  the  real  dis- 
coveries of  science,  he  stood  forth  as  a  leader.  In  the 
great  silent  reaction  from  the  solitude  of  a  consist- 
ent skepticism,  his  voice  was  a  clear-toned  bell  call- 
ing the  unwilling  exiles  of  belief  to  turn  again  and 
follow  the  guidance  of  the  Spirit.  No  new  arguments 
were  his.  But  the  sweetness  of  a  poet's  persuasion,  the 
splendour  of  high  truths  embodied  in  a  poet's  imagi- 
nation, the  convincing  beauty  of  noble  beliefs  set  forth 
in  clear  dream  and  solemn  vision, — these  were  the 
powers  that  he  employed. 

In  using  them  he  served  not  only  his  own  day  and 
generation  but  ours  and  those  that  are  to  come. 


[  cxx  ] 


I 

MELODIES   AND   PICTURES 


CLARIBEL 

A    MELODY 
I 

WHERE  Claribel  low-lieth 
The  breezes  pause  and  die, 

Letting  the  rose-leaves  fall: 
But  the  solemn  oak-tree  sigheth, 

Thick-leaved,  ambrosial, 
With  an  ancient  melody 
Of  an  inward  agony, 
Where  Claribel  low-lieth. 

II 
At  eve  the  beetle  boometh 

Athwart  the  thicket  lone: 
At  noon  the  wild  bee  hummeth 

About  the  moss'd  headstone: 
At  midnight  the  moon  cometh, 

And  looketh  down  alone. 
Her  song  the  lintwhite  swelleth, 
The  clear-voiced  mavis  dwelleth, 

The  callow  throstle  lispeth, 
The  slumbrous  wave  outwelleth, 

The  babbling  runnel  crispeth, 
The  hollow  grot  replieth 

Where  Claribel  low-lieth. 


[3] 


MELODIES   AND    PICTURES 

SONG 
I 

A  SPIRIT  haunts  the  year's  last  hours 
Dwelling  amid  these  yellowing  bowers: 

To  himself  he  talks; 
For  at  eventide,  listening  earnestly, 
At  his  work  you  may  hear  him  sob  and  sigh 

In  the  walks; 

Earthward  he  boweth  the  heavy  stalks 
Of  the  mouldering  flowers: 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 

Over  its  grave  i'  the  earth  so  chilly; 
Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock, 

Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-lily. 

II 

The  air  is  damp,  and  hush'd,  and  close, 
As  a  sick  man's  room  when  he  taketh  repose 

An  hour  before  death; 

My  very  heart  faints  and  my  whole  soul  grieves 
At  the  moist  rich  smell  of  the  rotting  leaves, 
And  the  breath 

Of  the  fading  edges  of  box  beneath, 
And  the  year's  last  rose. 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 

Over  its  grave  i'  the  earth  so  chilly; 
Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock, 
Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-lily. 


[4J 


THE    THROSTLE 

THE    THROSTLE 

' SUMMER  is  coming,  summer  is  coming. 

I  know  it,  I  know  it,  I  know  it. 
Light  again,  leaf  again,  life  again,  love  again/ 

Yes,  my  wild  little  Poet. 

Sing  the  new  year  in  under  the  blue. 

Last  year  you  sang  it  as  gladly. 
'New,  new,  new,  new!'  Is  it  then  so  new 

That  you  should  carol  so  madly? 

'Love  again,  song  again,  nest  again,  young  again/ 

Never  a  prophet  so  crazy! 
And  hardly  a  daisy  as  yet,  little  friend, 

See,  there  is  hardly  a  daisy. 

'Here  again,  here,  here,  here,  happy  year!' 

O  warble  unchidden,  unbidden! 
Summer  is  coming,  is  coming,  my  dear, 

And  all  the  winters  are  hidden. 


FAR— FAR— AWAY 

(FOR  MUSIC) 

WHAT  sight  so  lured  him  thro'  the  fields  he  knew 
As  where  earth's  green  stole  into  heaven's  own  hue, 
Far — far — away  ? 

What  sound  was  dearest  in  his  native  dells? 
The  mellow  lin-lan-lone  of  evening  bells 

Far — far — away. 

[5] 


MELODIES    AND    PICTURES 

What  vague  world-whisper,  mystic  pain  or  joy, 
TJiro'  those  three  words  would  haunt  him  when  a  boy, 
Far — far — away  ? 

A  whisper  from  his  dawn  of  life?  a  breath 
From  some  fair  dawn  beyond  the  doors  of  death 
Far — far — a  way  ? 

Far,  far,  how  far?  from  o'er  the  gates  of  Birth, 
The  faint  horizons,  all  the  bounds  of  earth, 
Far — far — away  ? 

What  charm  in  words,  a  charm  no  words  could  give? 
O  dying  words,  can  Music  make  you  live 
Far — far — away  ? 


"MOVE    EASTWARD,    HAPPY    EARTH" 

MOVE  eastward,  happy  earth,  and  leave 
Yon  orange  sunset  waning  slow: 

From  fringes  of  the  faded  eve, 
O,  happy  planet,  eastward  go; 

Till  over  thy  dark  shoulder  glow 
Thy  silver  sister-world,  and  rise 
To  glass  herself  in  dewy  eyes 

That  watch  me  from  the  glen  below. 

Ah,  bear  me  with  thee,  smoothly  borne, 
Dip  forward  under  starry  light, 

And  move  me  to  my  marriage-morn, 
And  round  again  to  happy  night. 
[6] 


THE    SNOWDROP 

THE    SNOWDROP 

MANY,  many  welcomes 
February  fair-maid, 
Ever  as  of  old  time, 
Solitary  firstling, 
Coming  in  the  cold  time, 
Prophet  of  the  gay  time, 
Prophet  of  the  May  time, 
Prophet  of  the  roses, 
Many,  many  welcomes 
February  fair-maid! 


A    FAREWELL 

FLOW  down,  cold  rivulet,  to  the  sea, 
Thy  tribute  wave  deliver: 

No  more  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 
For  ever  and  for  ever. 

Flow,  softly  flow,  by  lawn  and  lea, 

A  rivulet,  then  a  river: 
No  where  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 

For  ever  and  for  ever. 

But  here  will  sigh  thine  alder  tree, 
And  here  thine  aspen  shiver; 

And  here  by  thee  will  hum  the  bee, 
For  ever  and  for  ever. 

[7] 


MELODIES   AND    PICTURES 

A  thousand  suns  will  stream  on  thee 
A  thousand  moons  will  quiver; 

But  not  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 
For  ever  and  for  ever. 


SONGS   FROM   THE   PRINCESS 


The  Little  Grave 

As  thro'  the  land  at  eve  we  went, 

And  pluck'd  the  ripen'd  ears, 
We  fell  out,  my  wife  and  I, 
O  we  fell  out  I  know  not  why, 

And  kiss'd  again  with  tears. 
And  blessings  on  the  falling  out 

That  all  the  more  endears, 
When  we  fall  out  with  those  we  love 

And  kiss  again  with  tears! 
For  when  we  came  where  lies  the  child 

We  lost  in  other  years, 
There  above  the  little  grave, 
O  there  above  the  little  grave, 

We  kiss'd  again  with  tears. 

"Sweet  and  low" 

SWEET  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea, 
Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea! 
[  8] 


SONGS    FROM    THE    PRINCESS 

Over  the  rolling  waters  go, 

Come  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow, 

Blow  him  again  to  me; 
While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one,  sleeps. 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon; 
Rest,  rest,  on  mother's  breast, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon; 
Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest, 
Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 

Under  the  silver  moon: 
Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty  one,  sleep. 


The  Bugle  Song 

THE  splendour  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story: 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

O  hark,  O  hear!  how  thin  and  clear, 

And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going! 
O  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 

The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying: 
Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 
They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river: 
C  9  ] 


MELODIES    AND    PICTURES 

Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 
And  grow  for  ever  and  for  ever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying,  dying. 


"  Tears,  idle  tears" 

TEARS,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean, 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn-fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a  sail, 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  underworld, 
Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge; 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  dawns 
The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awaken'd  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square; 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Dear  as  remember'd  kisses  after  death, 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feign'd 
On  lips  that  are  for  others;  deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret; 
O  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 
[  10  ] 


SONGS    FROM    THE    PRINCESS 

The  Swallow's  Message 

O  SWALLOW,  Swallow,  flying,  flying  South, 
Fly  to  her,  and  fall  upon  her  gilded  eaves, 
And  tell  her,  tell  her,  what  I  tell  to  thee. 

O  tell  her,  Swallow,  thou  that  knowest  each, 
That  bright  and  fierce  and  fickle  is  the  South, 
And  dark  and  true  and  tender  is  the  North. 

O  Swallow,  Swallow,  if  I  could  follow,  and  light 
Upon  her  lattice,  I  would  pipe  and  trill, 
And  cheep  and  twitter  twenty  million  loves. 

O  were  I  thou  that  she  might  take  me  in, 
And  lay  me  on  her  bosom,  and  her  heart 
Would  rock  the  snowy  cradle  till  I  died. 

Why  lingereth  she  to  clothe  her  heart  with  love, 
Delaying  as  the  tender  ash  delays 
To  clothe  herself,  when  all  the  woods  are  green? 

O  tell  her,  Swallow,  that  thy  brood  is  flown: 
Say  to  her,  I  do  but  wanton  in  the  South, 
But  in  the  North  long  since  my  nest  is  made. 

O  tell  her,  brief  is  life  but  love  is  long, 
And  brief  the  sun  of  summer  in  the  North, 
And  brief  the  moon  of  beauty  in  the  South. 

O  Swallow,  flying  from  the  golden  woods, 
Fly  to  her,  and  pipe  and  woo  her,  and  make  her  mine, 
And  tell  her,  tell  her,  that  I  follow  thee. 
[  11  3 


MELODIES    AND    PICTURES 

The  Battle 

THY  voice  is  heard  thro'  rolling  drums, 
'  That  beat  to' battle  where  he  stands; 
Thy  face  across  his  fancy  comes, 

And  gives  the  battle  to  his  hands: 
A  moment,  while  the  trumpets  blow, 

He  sees  his  brood  about  thy  knee; 
The  next,  like  fire  he  meets  the  foe, 

And  strikes  him  dead  for  thine  and  thee. 


"Sweet  my  child,  I  live  for  thee" 

HOME  they  brought  her  warrior  dead: 
She  nor  swoon'd,  nor  utter'd  cry: 

All  her  maidens,  watching,  said, 
'She  must  weep  or  she  will  die.' 

Then  they  praised  him,  soft  and  low, 
Call'd  him  worthy  to  be  loved, 

Truest  friend  and  noblest  foe; 
Yet  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

Stole  a  maiden  from  her  place, 
Lightly  to  the  warrior  stept, 

Took  the  face-cloth  from  the  face; 
Yet  she  neither  moved  nor  wept. 

Rose  a  nurse  of  ninety  years, 
Set  his  child  upon  her  knee — 

Like  summer  tempest  came  her  tears- 
1  Sweet  my  child,  I  live  for  thee.' 
[  12  ] 


THE    SONG    OF   THE    BROOK 

"Ask  me  no  more"" 

ASK  me  no  more:  the  moon  may  draw  the  sea; 
The  cloud  may  stoop  from  heaven  and  take  the 

shape 

With  fold  to  fold,  of  mountain  or  of  cape; 
But  O  too  fond,  when  have  I  answer'd  thee? 
Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more :  what  answer  should  I  give  ? 
I  love  not  hollow  cheek  or  faded  eye: 
Yet,  O  my  friend,  I  will  not  have  thee  die! 

Ask  me  no  more,  lest  I  should  bid  thee  live; 
Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more:  thy  fate  and  mine  are  seal'd: 
I  strove  against  the  stream  and  all  in  vain: 
Let  the  great  river  take  me  to  the  main: 

No  more,  dear  love,  for  at  a  touch  I  yield ; 
Ask  me  no  more. 


SONGS  FROM  OTHER  POEMS 

The  Song  of  the  Brook 
(FROM  THE  BROOK) 

I  COME  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern, 

I  make  a  sudden  sally, 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 

To  bicker  down  a  valley. 
[  13  ] 


MELODIES   AND    PICTURES 

By  thirty  hills  I  hurry  down, 
Or  slip  between  the  ridges, 

By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town, 
And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Philip's  farm  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  chatter  over  stony  ways, 
In  little  sharps  and  trebles, 

I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 
I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret 
By  many  a  field  and  fallow, 

And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 
With  willow-weed  and  mallow. 

I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 
With  here  a  blossom  sailing, 

And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 
And  here  and  there  a  grayling, 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 
Upon  me,  as  I  travel 
[  14  ] 


CRADLE-SONG 

With  many  a  silvery  waterbreak 
Above  the  golden  gravel, 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots, 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers; 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance, 
Among  my  skimming  swallows; 

I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 
Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

I  murmur  under  moon  and  stars 

In  brambly  wildernesses; 
I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars; 

I  loiter  round  my  cresses; 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

Cradle-Sang 
(FaoM  SEA  DREAMS) 

WHAT  does  little  birdie  say 

In  her  nest  at  peep  of  day? 

[  15  ] 


MELODIES    AND    PICTURES 

Let  me  fly,  says  little  birdie, 
Mother,  let  me  fly  away. 
Birdie,  rest  a  little  longer, 
Till  the  little  wings  are  stronger. 
So  she  rests  a  little  longer, 
Then  she  flies  away. 

What  does  little  baby  say, 
In  her  bed  at  peep  of  day  ? 
Baby  says,  like  little  birdie, 
Let  me  rise  and  fly  away. 
Baby,  sleep  a  little  longer, 
Till  the  little  limbs  are  stronger. 
If  she  sleeps  a  little  longer, 
Baby  too  shall  fly  away. 

Mother-Sang 
(FROM  ROMNEY'S  REMORSE) 

BEAT  upon  mine,  little  heart!  beat,  beat! 
Beat  upon  mine!  you  are  mine,  my  sweet! 
All  mine  from  your  pretty  blue  eyes  to  your  feet, 

My  sweet. 

Sleep,  little  blossom,  my  honey,  my  bliss! 
For  I  give  you  this,  and  I  give  you  this! 
And  I  blind  your  pretty  blue  eyes  with  a  kiss! 

Sleep! 

Father  and  Mother  will  watch  you  grow, 
And  gather  the  roses  whenever  they  blow, 
And  find  the  white  heather  wherever  you  go, 

My  sweet. 
[  16  ] 


ENIDS   SONG 

EnitTs  Song 

(FROM  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  GEHAINT) 

TURN,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel  and  lower  the  proud ; 
Turn  thy  wild  wheel  thro'  sunshine, storm,  and  cloud; 
Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love  nor  hate. 

Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel  with  smile  or  frown; 
With  that  wild  wheel  we  go  not  up  or  down; 
Our  hoard  is  little,  but  our  hearts  are  great. 

Smile  and  we  smile,  the  lords  of  many  lands; 
Frown  and  we  smile,  the  lords  of  our  own  hands; 
For  man  is  man  and  master  of  his  fate. 

Turn,  turn  thy  wheel  above  the  staring  crowd; 
Thy  wheel  and  thou  are  shadows  in  the  cloud; 
Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love  nor  hate. 

Vivien's  Song 
(FROM  MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN) 

IN  Love,  if  Love  be  Love,  if  Love  be  ours, 
Faith  and  unfaith  can  ne'er  be  equal  powers: 
Unfaith  in  aught  is  want  of  faith  in  all. 

It  is  the  little  rift  within  the  lute, 
That  by  and  by  will  make  the  music  mute, 
And  ever  widening  slowly  silence  all. 

The  little  rift  within  the  lover's  lute 
Or  little  pitted  speck  in  garner'd  fruit, 
That  rotting  inward  slowly  moulders  all. 
[  17  ] 


MELODIES   AND    PICTURES 

It  is  not  worth  the  keeping:  let  it  go: 
But  shall  it?  answer,  darling,  answer,  no. 
And  trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all. 


Elaine's  Song- 
(FROM  LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE) 

SWEET  is  true  love  tho'  given  in  vain,  in  vain; 
And  sweet  is  death  who  puts  an  end  to  pain: 
I  know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  I. 

Love,  art  thou  sweet  ?  then  bitter  death  must  be : 
Love,  thou  art  bitter;  sweet  is  death  to  me. 

0  Love,  if  death  be  sweeter,  let  me  die. 

Sweet  love,  that  seems  not  made  to  fade  away, 
Sweet  death,  that  seems  to  make  us  loveless  clay, 

1  know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  I. 

I  fain  would  follow  love,  if  that  could  be ; 
I  needs  must  follow  death,  who  calls  for  me; 
Call  and  I  follow,  I  follow!  let  me  die. 


Milking-Song 
(FROM  QUEEN  MARY,  ACT  III,  SCENE  5) 

SHAME  upon  you,  Robin, 

Shame  upon  you  now! 
Kiss  me  would  you?  with  my  hands 

Milking  the  cow? 
[  18] 


THE    QUEEN  S    SONG 

Daisies  grow  again, 
Kingcups  blow  again, 
And  you  came  and  kiss'd  me  milking  the  cow. 

Robin  came  behind  me, 

Kiss'd  me  well  I  vow; 
Cuff  him  could  I  ?  with  my  hands 

Milking  the  cow? 

Swallows  fly  again, 

Cuckoos  cry  again, 
And  you  came  and  kiss'd  me  milking  the  cow. 

Come,  Robin,  Robin, 

Come  and  kiss  me  now; 
Help  it  can  I  ?  with  my  hands 

Milking  the  cow? 

Ringdoves  coo  again, 

All  things  woo  again. 
Come  behind  and  kiss  me  milking  the  cow! 


The  Queer?  s  Song 
(FROM  QUEEN  MARY,  ACT  V,  SCENE  2) 

HAPLESS  doom  of  woman  happy  in  betrothing! 
Beauty  passes  like  a  breath  and  love  is  lost  in  loathing : 
Low,  my  lute ;  speak  low,  my  lute,  but  say  the  world 
is  nothing — 

Low,  lute,  low! 
Love  will  hover  round  the  flowers  when  they  first 

awaken ; 

Love  will  fly  the  fallen  leaf,  and  not  be  overtaken; 
[  19] 


MELODIES    AND    PICTURES 

Low,  my  lute!  oh  low,  my  lute!  we  fade  and  are  for- 
saken— 

Low,  dear  lute,  low! 


Duet  of  Henry  and  Rosamund 
(FROM  BECKET,  ACT  II,  SCENE  1) 

1.  Is  it  the  wind  of  the  dawn  that  I  hear  in  the  pine 

overhead  ? 

2.  No;  but  the  voice  of  the  deep  as  it  hollows  the 

cliffs  of  the  land. 

1.  Is  there  a  voice  coming  up  with  the  voice  of  the 

deep  from  the  strand, 

One  coming  up  with  a  song  in  the  flush  of  the  glim- 
mering red? 

2.  Love  that  is  born  of  the  deep  coming  up  with  the 

sun  from  the  sea. 

1.  Love  that  can  shape  or  can  shatter  a  life  till  the  life 

shall  have  fled? 

2.  Nay,  let  us  welcome  him,  Love  that  can  lift  up  a 

life  from  the  dead. 

1 .  Keep  him  away  from  the  lone  little  isle.  Let  us  be, 

let  us  be. 

2.  Nay,  let  him  make  it  his  own,  let  him  reign  in  it 

— he,  it  is  he, 

Love  that  is  born  of  the  deep  coming  up  with  the 
sun  from  the  sea. 


[20] 


ODE   TO    MEMORY 
ADDRESSED   TO   


THOU  who  stealest  fire, 
From  the  fountains  of  the  past, 
To  glorify  the  present;  oh,  haste, 

Visit  my  low  desire! 
Strengthen  me,  enlighten  me! 
I  faint  in  this  obscurity, 
Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 

II 

Come  not  as  thou  earnest  of  late, 
Flinging  the  gloom  of  yesternight 
On  the  white  day;  but  robed  in  soften'd  light 

Of  orient  state. 
Whilome  thou  earnest  with  the  morning  mist, 

Even  as  a  maid,  whose  stately  brow 
The  dew-impearled  winds  of  dawn  have  kiss'd, 

When  she,  as  thou, 

Stays  on  her  floating  locks  the  lovely  freight 
Of  overflowing  blooms,  and  earliest  shoots 
Of  orient  green,  giving  safe  pledge  of  fruits, 
Which  in  wintertide  shall  star 
The  black  earth  with  brilliance  rare. 

in 

Whilome  thou  earnest  with  the  morning  mist, 
And  with  the  evening  cloud, 
[  21  ] 


MELODIES   AND    PICTURES 

Showering  thy  gleaned  wealth  into  my  open  breast 
(Those  peerless  flowers  which  in  the  rudest  wind 

Never  grow  sere, 
When  rooted  in  the  garden  of  the  mind, 

Because  they  are  the  earliest  of  the  year). 

Nor  was  the  night  thy  shroud. 
In  sweet  dreams  softer  than  unbroken  rest 
Thou  leddest  by  the  hand  thine  infant  Hope. 
The  eddying  of  her  garments  caught  from  thee 
The  light  of  thy  great  presence ;  and  the  cope 

Of  the  half-attain' d  futurity, 

Tho'  deep  not  fathomless, 

Was  cloven  with  the  million  stars  which  tremble 
O'er  the  deep  mind  of  dauntless  infancy. 
Small  thought  was  there  of  life's  distress; 
For  sure  she  deem'd  no  mist  of  earth  could  dull 
Those  spirit-thrilling  eyes  so  keen  and  beautiful: 
Sure  she  was  nigher  to  heaven's  spheres, 
Listening  the  lordly  music  flowing  from 
The  illimitable  years. 

0  strengthen  me,  enlighten  me! 

1  faint  in  this  obscurity, 
Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 

IV 

Come  forth,  I  charge  thee,  arise, 
Thou  of  the  many  tongues,  the  myriad  eyes! 
Thou  comest  not  with  shows  of  flaunting  vines 
Unto  mine  inner  eye, 
Divinest  Memory! 

Thou  wert  not  nursed  by  the  waterfall 
C  22] 


ODE    TO    MEMORY 

Which  ever  sounds  and  shines 

A  pillar  of  white  light  upon  the  wall 
Of  purple  cliffs,  aloof  descried : 
Come  from  the  woods  that  belt  the  gray  hill-side, 
The  seven  elms,  the  poplars  four 
That  stand  beside  my  father's  door, 
And  chiefly  from  the  brook  that  loves 
To  purl  o'er  matted  cress  and  ribbed  sand, 
Or  dimple  in  the  dark  of  rushy  coves, 
Drawing  into  his  narrow  earthen  uni, 

In  every  elbow  and  turn, 
The  filter'd  tribute  of  the  rough  woodland, 

O!  hither  lead  thy  feet! 
Pour  round  mine  ears  the  livelong  bleat 
Of  the  thick-fleeced  sheep  from  wattled  folds, 

Upon  the  ridged  wolds, 

When  the  first  matin-song  hath  waken' d  loud 
Over  the  dark  dewy  earth  forlorn, 
What  time  the  amber  morn 
Forth  gushes  from  beneath  a  low-hung  cloud. 


Large  dowries  doth  the  raptured  eye 
To  the  young  spirit  present 
When  first  she  is  wed; 

And  like  a  bride  of  old 
In  triumph  led, 

With  music  and  sweet  showers 
Of  festal  flowers, 

Unto  the  dwelling  she  must  sway. 
Well  hast  thou  done,  great  artist  Memory, 
[  23] 


MELODIES    AND    PICTURES 

In  setting  round  thy  first  experiment 

With  royal  frame-work  of  wrought  gold; 
Needs  must  thou  dearly  love  thy  first  essay, 
And  foremost  in  thy  various  gallery 

Place  it,  where  sweetest  sunlight  falls 

Upon  the  storied  walls; 
For  the  discovery 

And  newness  of  thine  art  so  pleased  thee, 
That  all  which  thou  hast  drawn  of  fairest 

Or  boldest  since,  but  lightly  weighs 
With  thee  unto  the  love  thou  bearest 
The  first-born  of  thy  genius.  Artist-like, 
Ever  retiring  thou  dost  gaze 
On  the  prime  labour  of  thine  early  days : 
No  matter  what  the  sketch  might  be; 
Whether  the  high  field  on  the  bushless  Pike, 
Or  even  a  sand-built  ridge 
Of  heaped  hills  that  mound  the  sea, 
Overblown  with  murmurs  harsh, 
Or  even  a  lowly  cottage  whence  we  see 
Stretch'd  wide  and  wild  the  waste  enormous  marsh, 
Where  from  the  frequent  bridge, 
Like  emblems  of  infinity, 
The  trenched  waters  run  from  sky  to  sky; 
Or  a  garden  bower'd  close 
With  plaited  alleys  of  the  trailing  rose, 
Long  alleys  falling  down  to  twilight  grots, 
Or  opening  upon  level  plots 
Of  crowned  lilies,  standing  near 
Purple-spiked  lavender: 
Whither  in  after  life  retired 

[  24  ] 


THE    BEGGAR   MAID 

From  brawling  storms, 

From  weary  wind, 

With  youthful  fancy  re-inspired, 

We  may  hold  converse  with  all  forms 
Of  the  many-sided  mind, 
And  those  whom  passion  hath  not  blinded, 
Subtle-thoughted,  myriad-minded. 

My  friend,  with  you  to  live  alone, 
Were  how  much  better  than  to  own 
A  crown,  a  sceptre,  and  a  throne! 

0  strengthen  me,  enlighten  me! 

1  faint  in  this  obscurity, 
Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 


THE    BEGGAR    MAID 

HER  arms  across  her  breast  she  laid; 

She  was  more  fair  than  words  can  say: 
Bare-footed  came  the  beggar  maid 

Before  the  king  Cophetua. 
In  robe  and  crown  the  king  stept  down, 

To  meet  and  greet  her  on  her  way ; 
'It  is  no  wonder/  said  the  lords, 

'She  is  more  beautiful  than  day.' 

As  shines  the  moon  in  clouded  skies, 
She  in  her  poor  attire  was  seen: 

One  praised  her  ankles,  one  her  eyes, 
One  her  dark  hair  and  lovesome  mien. 

[  26] 


MELODIES   AND    PICTURES 

So  sweet  a  face,  such  angel  grace, 
In  all  that  land  had  never  been: 

Cophetua  sware  a  royal  oath: 

'This  beggar  maid  shall  be  my  queen!' 


RECOLLECTIONS 
OF   THE    ARABIAN    NIGHTS 

WHEN  the  breeze  of  a  joyful  dawn  blew  free 

In  the  silken  sail  of  infancy, 

The  tide  of  time  flow'd  back  with  me, 

The  forward-flowing  tide  of  time; 
And  many  a  sheeny  summer-morn, 
Adown  the  Tigris  I  was  borne, 
By  Bagdat's  shrines  of  fretted  gold, 
High-walled  gardens  green  and  old; 
True  Mussulman  was  I  and  sworn, 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Anight  my  shallop,  rustling  thro' 
The  low  and  bloomed  foliage,  drove 
The  fragrant,  glistening  deeps,  and  clove 
The  citron-shadows  in  the  blue : 
By  garden  porches  on  the  brim, 
The  costly  doors  flung  open  wide, 
Gold  glittering  thro'  lamplight  dim, 
And  broider'd  sofas  on  each  side: 

In  sooth  it  was  a  goodly  time, 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 
[  26] 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF   THE    ARABIAN    NIGHTS 

Often,  where  clear-stemm'd  platans  guard 

The  outlet,  did  I  turn  away 

The  boat-head  down  a  broad  canal 

From  the  main  river  sluiced,  where  all 

The  sloping  of  the  moon-lit  sward 

Was  damask-work,  and  deep  inlay 

Of  braided  blooms  unmown,  which  crept 

Adown  to  where  the  water  slept. 

A  goodly  place,  a  goodly  time, 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

A  motion  from  the  river  won 
Ridged  the  smooth  level,  bearing  on 
My  shallop  thro'  the  star-strown  calm, 
Until  another  night  in  night 
I  enter' d,  from  the  clearer  light, 
Imbower'd  vaults  of  pillar'd  palm, 
Imprisoning  sweets,  which,  as  they  clomb 
Heavenward,  were  stay'd  beneath  the  dome 

Of  hollow  boughs.  —  A  goodly  time, 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Still  onward ;  and  the  clear  canal 
Is  rounded  to  as  clear  a  lake. 
From  the  green  rivage  many  a  fall 
Of  diamond  rillets  musical, 
Thro'  little  crystal  arches  low 
Down  from  the  central  fountain's  flow 
Fall'n  silver-chiming,  seemed  to  shake 
[  27] 


MELODIES    AND    PICTURES 

The  sparkling  flints  beneath  the  prow. 
A  goodly  place,  a  goodly  time, 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Above  thro'  many  a  bowery  turn 
A  walk  with  vary-colour'd  shells 
Wander'd  engrain'd.  On  either  side 
All  round  about  the  fragrant  marge 
From  fluted  vase,  and  brazen  urn 
In  order,  eastern  flowers  large, 
Some  dropping  low  their  crimson  bells 
Half-closed,  and  others  studded  wide 
With  disks  and  tiars,  fed  the  time 
With  odour  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Far  off,  and  where  the  lemon  grove 
In  closest  coverture  upsprung, 
The  living  airs  of  middle  night 
Died  round  the  bulbul  as  he  sung; 
Not  he:  but  something  which  possess'd 
The  darkness  of  the  world,  delight, 
Life,  anguish,  death,  immortal  love, 
Ceasing  not,  mingled,  unrepress'd, 
Apart  from  place,  withholding  time, 
But  flattering  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Black  the  garden-bowers  and  grots 
Slumber'd:  the  solemn  palms  were  ranged 
Above,  unwoo'd  of  summer  wind : 
[  28  ] 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF   THE    ARABIAN    NIGHTS 

A  sudden  splendour  from  behind 

Flush'd  all  the  leaves  with  rich  gold-green, 

And,  flowing  rapidly  between 

Their  interspaces,  counterchanged 

The  level  lake  with  diamond-plots 

Of  dark  and  bright.  A  lovely  time, 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Dark -blue  the  deep  sphere  overhead, 
Distinct  with  vivid  stars  inlaid, 
Grew  darker  from  that  under-flame: 
So,  leaping  lightly  from  the  boat, 
With  silver  anchor  left  afloat, 
In  marvel  whence  that  glory  came 
Upon  me,  as  in  sleep  I  sank 
In  cool  soft  turf  upon  the  bank, 

Entranced  with  that' place  and  time, 

So  worthy  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Thence  thro'  the  garden  I  was  drawn — 
A  realm  of  pleasance,  many  a  mound, 
And  many  a  shadow-chequer'd  lawn 
Full  of  the  city's  stilly  sound, 
And  deep  myrrh -thickets  blowing  round 
The  stately  cedar,  tamarisks, 
Thick  rosaries  of  scented  thorn, 
Tall  orient  shrubs,  and  obelisks 

Graven  with  emblems  of  the  time, 

In  honour  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 
[  29] 


MELODIES    AND    PICTURES 

With  dazed  vision  unawares 
From  the  long  alley's  latticed  shade 
Emerged,  I  came  upon  the  great 
Pavilion  of  the  Caliphat. 
Right  to  the  carven  cedarn  doors, 
Flung  inward  over  spangled  floors, 
Broad-based  flights  of  marble  stairs 
Ran  up  with  golden  balustrade, 
After  the  fashion  of  the  time, 
And  humour  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

The  fourscore  windows  all  alight 
As  with  the  quintessence  of  flame, 
A  million  tapers  flaring  bright 
From  twisted  silvers  look'd  to  shame 
The  hollow-vaulted  dark,  and  stream'd 
Upon  the  mooned  domes  aloof 
In  inmost  Bagdat,  till  there  seem'd 
Hundreds  of  crescents  on  the  roof 

Of  night  new-risen,  that  marvellous  time 
To  celebrate  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Then  stole  I  up,  and  trancedly 
Gazed  on  the  Persian  girl  alone, 
Serene  with  argent-lidded  eyes 
Amorous,  and  lashes  like  to  rays 
Of  darkness,  and  a  brow  of  pearl 
Tressed  with  redolent  ebony, 
In  many  a  dark  delicious  curl, 
Flowing  beneath  her  rose-hued  zone; 
[  30] 


THE    DAISY 

The  sweetest  lady  of  the  time, 
Well  worthy  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Six  columns,  three  on  either  side, 
Pure  silver,  underpropt  a  rich 
Throne  of  the  massive  ore,  from  which 
Down-droop'd,  in  many  a  floating  fold, 
Engarlanded  and  diaper'd 
With  inwrought  flowers,  a  cloth  of  gold. 
Thereon,  his  deep  eye  laughter-stirr'd 
With  merriment  of  kingly  pride, 
Sole  star  of  all  that  place  and  time, 
I  saw  him — in  his  golden  prime, 
THE  GOOD  HAROUN  ALRASCHID. 


THE   DAISY 

WRITTEN    AT    EDINBURGH 

O  LOVE,  what  hours  were  thine  and  mine, 
In  lands  of  palm  and  southern  pine ; 

In  lands  of  palm,  of  orange-blossom, 
Of  olive,  aloe,  and  maize  and  vine. 

What  Roman  strength  Turbia  show'd 
In  ruin,  by  the  mountain  road; 

How  like  a  gem,  beneath,  the  city 
Of  little  Monaco,  basking,  glow'd. 

How  richly  down  the  rocky  dell 
The  torrent  vineyard  streaming  fell 
[  31  ] 


MELODIES    AND    PICTURES 

To  meet  the  sun  and  sunny  waters, 
That  only  heaved  with  a  summer  swell. 

What  slender  campanili  grew 

By  bays,  the  peacock's  neck  in  hue; 

Where,  here  and  there,  on  sandy  beaches 
A  milky-bell'd  amaryllis  blew. 

How  young  Columbus  seem'd  to  rove, 
Yet  present  in  his  natal  grove, 

Now  watching  high  on  mountain  cornice, 
And  steering,  now,  from  a  purple  cove, 

Now  pacing  mute  by  ocean's  rim; 
Till,  in  a  narrow  street  and  dim, 

I  stay'd  the  wheels  at  Cogoletto, 
And  drank,  and  loyally  drank  to  him. 

Nor  knew  we  well  what  pleased  us  most, 
Not  the  clipt  palm  of  which  they  boast; 

But  distant  colour,  happy  hamlet, 
A  moulder'd  citadel  on  the  coast, 

Or  tower,  or  high  hill-convent,  seen 
A  light  amid  its  olives  green; 

Or  olive-hoary  cape  in  ocean; 
Or  rosy  blossom  in  hot  ravine, 

Where  oleanders  flush'd  the  bed 
Of  silent  torrents,  gravel-spread ; 

And,  crossing,  oft  we  saw  the  glisten 
Of  ice,  far  up  on  a  mountain  head. 
[  32] 


THE    DAISY 

We  loved  that  hall,  tho'  white  and  cold, 
Those  niched  shapes  of  noble  mould, 
A  princely  people's  awful  princes, 
The  grave,  severe  Genovese  of  old. 

At  Florence  too  what  golden  hours, 
In  those  long  galleries,  were  ours; 

What  drives  about  the  fresh  Cascine, 
Or  walks  in  Boboli's  ducal  bowers. 

In  bright  vignettes,  and  each  complete, 
Of  tower  or  duomo,  sunny-sweet, 

Or  palace,  how  the  city  glitter' d, 
Thro'  cypress  avenues,  at  our  feet. 

But  when  we  crost  the  Lombard  plain 
Remember  what  a  plague  of  rain ; 

Of  rain  at  Reggio,  rain  at  Parma; 
At  Lodi,  rain,  Piacenza,  rain. 

And  stern  and  sad  (so  rare  the  smiles 
Of  sunlight)  look'd  the  Lombard  piles; 

Porch-pillars  on  the  lion  resting, 
And  sombre,  old,  colonnaded  aisles. 

0  Milan,  O  the  chanting  quires, 
The  giant  windows'  blazon'd  fires, 

The  height,  the  space,  the  gloom,  the  glory! 
A  mount  of  marble,  a  hundred  spires! 

1  climb'd  the  roofs  at  break  of  day; 
Sun-smitten  Alps  before  me  lay. 

[  33] 


MELODIES    AND    PICTURES 

I  stood  among  the  silent  statues, 
And  statued  pinnacles,  mute  as  they. 

How  faintly-flush'd,  how  phantom-fair, 
Was  Monte  Rosa,  hanging  there 

A  thousand  shadowy-pencill'd  valleys 
And  snowy  dells  in  a  golden  air. 

Remember  how  we  came  at  last 

To  Como;  shower  and  storm  and  blast 

Had  blown  the  lake  beyond  his  limit, 
And  all  was  flooded;  and  how  we  past 

From  Como,  when  the  light  was  gray, 
And  in  my  head,  for  half  the  day, 

The  rich  Virgilian  rustic  measure 
Of  Lari  Maxume,  all  the  way, 

Like  ballad-burthen  music,  kept, 
As  on  the  Lariano  crept 

To  that  fair  port  below  the  castle 
Of  Queen  Theodolind,  where  we  slept; 

Or  hardly  slept,  but  watch'd  awake 
A  cypress  in  the  moonlight  shake, 

The  moonlight  touching  o'er  a  terrace 
One  tall  Agave  above  the  lake. 

What  more?  we  took  our  last  adieu, 
And  up  the  snowy  Splugen  drew, 

But  ere  we  reach'd  the  highest  summit 
I  pluck' d  a  daisy,  I  gave  it  you. 
[  34] 


EARLY    SPRING 

It  told  of  England  then  to  me, 
And  now  it  tells  of  Italy. 

O  love,  we  two  shall  go  no  longer 
To  lands  of  summer  across  the  sea; 

So  dear  a  life  your  arms  enfold 
Whose  crying  is  a  cry  for  gold: 

Yet  here  to-night  in  this  dark  city, 
When  ill  and  weary,  alone  and  cold, 

I  found,  tho'  crush'd  to  hard  and  dry, 
This  nurseling  of  another  sky 

Still  in  the  little  book  you  lent  me, 
And  where  you  tenderly  laid  it  by: 

And  I  forgot  the  clouded  Forth, 

The  gloom  that  saddens  Heaven  and  Earth, 

The  bitter  east,  the  misty  summer 
And  gray  metropolis  of  the  North. 

Perchance,  to  lull  the  throbs  of  pain, 
Perchance,  to  charm  a  vacant  brain, 

Perchance,  to  dream  you  still  beside  me, 
My  fancy  fled  to  the  South  again. 


EARLY   SPRING 

I 
ONCE  more  the  Heavenly  Power 

Makes  all  things  new, 
And  domes  the  red-plow'd  hills 
[  35] 


MELODIES   AND    PICTURES 

With  loving  blue; 
The  blackbirds  have  their  wills, 
The  throstles  too. 

II 
Opens  a  door  in  Heaven ; ' 

From  skies  of  glass 
A  Jacob's  ladder  falls 

On  greening  grass, 
And  o'er  the  mountain- walls 

Young  angels  pass. 

in 
Before  them  fleets  the  shower, 

And  burst  the  buds, 
And  shine  the  level  lands, 

And  flash  the  floods; 
The  stars  are  from  their  hands 

Flung  thro'  the  woods, 

IV 

The  woods  with  living  airs 

How  softly  fann'd, 
Light  airs  from  where  the  deep, 

All  down  the  sand, 
Is  breathing  in  his  sleep, 

Heard  by  the  land. 

v 

O  follow,  leaping  blood, 
The  season's  lure! 
[  36] 


EARLY    SPRING 

O  heart,  look  down  and  up 

Serene,  secure, 
Warm  as  the  crocus  cup, 

Like  snowdrops,  pure! 

VI 

Past,  Future  glimpse  and  fade 
Thro'  some  slight  spell, 

A  gleam  from  yonder  vale, 
Some  far  blue  fell, 

And  sympathies,  how  frail, 
In  sound  and  smell! 

VII 

Till  at  thy  chuckled  note, 

Thou  twinkling  bird, 
The  fairy  fancies  range, 

And,  lightly  stirr'd, 
Ring  little  bells  of  change 

From  word  to  word. 

VIII 

For  now  the  Heavenly  Power 
Makes  all  things  new, 

And  thaws  the  cold,  and  fills 
The  flower  with  dew; 

The  blackbirds  have  their  wills, 
The  poets  too. 


[37] 


MELODIES   AND    PICTURES 

THE    DYING   SWAN 

I 

THE  plain  was  grassy,  wild  and  bare, 
Wide,  wild,  and  open  to  the  air, 
Which  had  built  up  everywhere 
An  under-roof  of  doleful  gray. 
With  an  inner  voice  the  river  ran, 
Adown  it  floated  a  dying  swan, 

And  loudly  did  lament. 
It  was  the  middle  of  the  day. 
Ever  the  weary  wind  went  on, 

And  took  the  reed-tops  as  it  went. 

II 

Some  blue  peaks  in  the  distance  rose, 

And  white  against  the  cold-white  sky, 

Shone  out  their  crowning  snows. 
One  willow  over  the  river  wept, 

And  shook  the  wave  as  the  wind  did  sigh; 

Above  in  the  wind  was  the  swallow, 
Chasing  itself  at  its  own  wild  will, 
And  far  thro'  the  marish  green  and  still 
The  tangled  water-courses  slept, 

Shot  over  with  purple,  and  green,  and  yellow. 

in 

The  wild  swan's  death-hymn  took  the  soul 
Of  that  waste  place  with  joy 
Hidden  in  sorrow:  at  first  to  the  ear 
The  warble  was  low,  and  full  and  clear; 
[38] 


THE    EAGLE 

And  floating  about  the  under-sky, 

Prevailing  in  weakness,  the  coronach  stole 

Sometimes  afar,  and  sometimes  anear; 

But  anon  her  awful  jubilant  voice, 

With  a  music  strange  and  manifold, 

Flow'd  forth  on  a  carol  free  and  bold; 

As  when  a  mighty  people  rejoice 

With  shawms,  and  with  cymbals,  and  harps  of  gold, 

And  the  tumult  of  their  acclaim  is  roll'd 

Thro'  the  open  gates  of  the  city  afar, 

To  the  shepherd  who  watcheth  the  evening  star. 

And  the  creeping  mosses  and  clambering  weeds, 

And  the  willow-branches  hoar  and  dank, 

And  the  wavy  swell  of  the  soughing  reeds, 

And  the  wave-worn  horns  of  the  echoing  bank, 

And  the  silvery  marish-flowers  that  throng 

The  desolate  creeks  and  pools  among, 

Were  flooded  over  with  eddying  song. 


THE   EAGLE 

FRAGMENT 

HE  clasps  the  crag  with  crooked  hands; 
Close  to  the  sun  in  lonely  lands, 
Ring'd  with  the  azure  world,  he  stands. 

The  wrinkled  sea  beneath  him  crawls; 
He  watches  from  his  mountain  walls, 
And  like  a  thunderbolt  he  falls. 
[  39] 


MELODIES   AND    PICTURES 

THE    OAK 

LIVE  thy  Life, 

Young  and  old, 
Like  yon  oak, 
Bright  in  spring, 
Living  gold; 

Summer-rich 
Then;  and  then 

Autumn-changed, 

Soberer-hued 
Gold  again. 

All  his  leaves 

Fall'n  at  length, 
Look,  he  stands, 
Trunk  and  bough, 
Naked  strength. 


THE    SEA-FAIRIES 

SLOW  sail'd  the  weary  mariners  and  saw, 
Betwixt  the  green  brink  and  the  running  foam, 
Sweet  faces,  rounded  arms,  and  bosoms  prest 
To  little  harps  of  gold;  and  while  they  mused 
Whispering  to  each  other  half  in  fear, 
Shrill  music  reach'd  them  on  the  middle  sea. 

Whither  away,  whither  away,  whither  away?  fly  no 
more. 

[  40] 


THE    SEA-FAIRIES 

Whither  away  from  the  high  green  field,  and  the 

happy  blossoming  shore? 

Day  and  night  to  the  billow  the  fountain  calls: 
Down  shower  the  gambolling  waterfalls 
From  wandering  over  the  lea: 
Out  of  the  live-green  heart  of  the  dells 
They  freshen  the  silvery-crimson  shells, 
And  thick  with  white  bells  the  clover-hill  swells 
High  over  the  full-toned  sea: 
O  hither,  come  hither  and  furl  your  sails, 
Come  hither  to  me  and  to  me: 
Hither,  come  hither  and  frolic  and  play; 
Here  it  is  only  the  mew  that  wails; 
We  will  sing  to  you  all  the  day: 
Mariner,  mariner,  furl  your  sails, 
For  here  are  the  blissful  downs  and  dales, 
And  merrily,  merrily  carol  the  gales, 
And  the  spangle  dances  in  bight  and  bay, 
And  the  rainbow  forms  and  flies  on  the  land 
Over  the  islands  free; 

And  the  rainbow  lives  in  the  curve  of  the  sand ; 
Hither,  come  hither  and  see; 
And  the  rainbow  hangs  on  the  poising  wave, 
And  sweet  is  the  colour  of  cove  and  cave, 
And  sweet  shall  your  welcome  be: 
O  hither,  come  hither,  and  be  our  lords, 
For  merry  brides  are  we: 

We  will  kiss  sweet  kisses,  and  speak  sweet  words: 
O  listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glisten 
With  pleasure  and  love  and  jubilee: 
O  listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glisten 

[41  ] 


MELODIES    AND    PICTURES 

When  the  sharp  clear  twang  of  the  golden  chords 
Runs  up  the  ridged  sea. 
Who  can  light  on  as  happy  a  shore 
All  the  world  o'er,  all  the  world  o'er? 
Whither  away  ?  listen  and  stay :  mariner,  mariner,  fly 
no  more. 


THE    LOTOS-EATERS 

' COURAGE!'  he  said,  and  pointed  toward  the  land, 
'This  mounting  wave  will  roll  us  shoreward  soon.' 
In  the  afternoon  they  came  unto  a  land 
In  which  it  seemed  always  afternoon. 
All  round  the  coast  the  languid  air  did  swoon, 
Breathing  like  one  that  hath  a  weary  dream. 
Full-faced  above  the  valley  stood  the  moon ; 
And  like  a  downward  smoke,  the  slender  stream 
Along  the  cliff  to  fall  and  pause  and  fall  did  seem. 

A  land  of  streams !  some,  like  a  downward  smoke, 

Slow-dropping  veils  of  thinnest  lawn,  did  go ; 

And  some  thro'  wavering  lights  and  shadows  broke, 

Rolling  a  slumbrous  sheet  of  foam  below. 

They  saw  the  gleaming  river  seaward  flow 

From  the  inner  land:  far  off,  three  mountain-tops, 

Three  silent  pinnacles  of  aged  snow, 

Stood  sunset-flush'd :  and,  dew'd  with  showery  drops, 

Up-clomb  the  shadowy  pine  above  the  woven  copse. 

The  charmed  sunset  linger'd  low  adown 
In  the  red  West:  thro'  mountain  clefts  the  dale 
Was  seen  far  inland,  and  the  yellow  down 
[42  ] 


THE    LOTOS-EATERS 

Border'd  with  palm,  and  many  a  winding  vale 

And  meadow,  set  with  slender  galingale ; 

A  land  where  all  things  always  seem'd  the  same! 

And  round  about  the  keel  with  faces  pale, 

Dark  faces  pale  against  that  rosy  flame, 

The  mild-eyed  melancholy  Lotos-eaters  came. 

Branches  they  bore  of  that  enchanted  stem, 
Laden  with  flower  and  fruit,  whereof  they  gave 
To  each,  but  whoso  did  receive  of  them, 
And  taste,  to  him  the  gushing  of  the  wave 
Far  far  away  did  seem  to  mourn  and  rave 
On  alien  shores ;  and  if  his  fellow  spake, 
His  voice  was  thin,  as  voices  from  the  grave; 
And  deep-asleep  he  seem'd,  yet  all  awake, 
And  music  in  his  ears  his  beating  heart  did  make. 

They  sat  them  down  upon  the  yellow  sand, 
Between  the  sun  and  moon  upon  the  shore; 
And  sweet  it  was  to  dream  of  Fatherland, 
Of  child,  and  wife,  and  slave ;  but  evermore 
Most  weary  seem'd  the  sea,  weary  the  oar, 
Weary  the  wandering  fields  of  barren  foam. 
Then  some  one  said,  'We  will  return  no  more;' 
And  all  at  once  they  sang,  'Our  island  home 
Is  far  beyond  the  wave ;  we  will  no  longer  roam.' 

CHORIC  SONG 

i 

THERE  is  sweet  music  here  that  softer  falls 
Than  petals  from  blown  roses  on  the  grass, 
Or  night-dews  on  still  waters  between  walls 
[  43] 


MELODIES    AND    PICTURES 

Of  shadowy  granite,  in  a  gleaming  pass; 

Music  that  gentlier  on  the  spirit  lies, 

Than  tir'd  eyelids  upon  tir'd  eyes; 

Music  that  brings  sweet  sleep  down  from  the  blissful 

skies. 

Here  are  cool  mosses  deep, 
And  thro'  the  moss  the  ivies  creep, 
And  in  the  stream  the  long-leaved  flowers  weep, 
And  from  the  craggy  ledge  the  poppy  hangs  in  sleep. 

II 

Why  are  we  weigh'd  upon  with  heaviness, 
And  utterly  consumed  with  sharp  distress, 
While  all  things  else  have  rest  from  weariness? 
All  things  have  rest:  why  should  we  toil  alone, 
We  only  toil,  who  are  the  first  of  things, 
And  make  perpetual  moan, 
Still  from  one  sorrow  to  another  thrown: 
Nor  ever  fold  our  wings, 
And  cease  from  wanderings, 
Nor  steep  our  brows  in  slumber's  holy  balm; 
Nor  hearken  what  the  inner  spirit  sings, 
'There  is  no  joy  but  calm!' 
Why  should  we  only  toil,  the  roof  and  crown  of  things? 

in 

Lo !  in  the  middle  of  the  wood, 
The  folded  leaf  is  woo'd  from  out  the  bud 
With  winds  upon  the  branch,  and  there 
Grows  green  and  broad,  and  takes  no  care, 
Sun-steep'd  at  noon,  and  in  the  moon 
[  44] 


THE    LOTOS-EATERS 

Nightly  dew-fed;  and  turning  yellow 

Falls,  and  floats  adown  the  air. 

Lo !  sweeten'd  with  the  summer  light, 

The  full-juiced  apple,  waxing  over-mellow, 

Drops  in  a  silent  autumn  night. 

All  its  allotted  length  of  days, 

The  flower  ripens  in  its  place, 

Ripens  and  fades,  and  falls,  and  hath  no  toil, 

Fast-rooted  in  the  fruitful  soil. 

IV 

Hateful  is  the  dark-blue  sky, 
Vaulted  o'er  the  dark-blue  sea. 
Death  is  the  end  of  life ;  ah,  why 
Should  life  all  labour  be? 
Let  us  alone.  Time  driveth  onward  fast, 
And  in  a  little  while  our  lips  are  dumb. 
Let  us  alone.  What  is  it  that  will  last? 
All  things  are  taken  from  us,  and  become 
Portions  and  parcels  of  the  dreadful  Past. 
Let  us  alone.  What  pleasure  can  we  have 
To  war  with  evil?  Is  there  any  peace 
In  ever  climbing  up  the  climbing  wave? 
All  things  have  rest,  and  ripen  toward  the  grave 
In  silence;  ripen,  fall  and  cease:  ' 
Give  us  long  rest  or  death,  dark  death,  or  dreamful 
ease. 

v 

How  sweet  it  were,  hearing  the  downward  stream, 
With  half-shut  eyes  ever  to  seem 
Falling  asleep  in  a  half-dream ! 
[  45  ] 


MELODIES   AND    PICTURES 

To  dream  and  dream,  like  yonder  amber  light, 

Which  will  not  leave  the  myrrh-bush  on  the  height; 

To  hear  each  other's  whisper'd  speech; 

Eating  the  Lotos  day  by  day, 

To  watch  the  crisping  ripples  on  the  beach, 

And  tender  curving  lines  of  creamy  spray ; 

To  lend  our  hearts  and  spirits  wholly 

To  the  influence  of  mild-minded  melancholy; 

To  muse  and  brood  and  live  again  in  memory, 

With  those  old  faces  of  our  infancy 

Heap'd  over  with  a  mound  of  grass, 

Two  handfuls  of  white  dust,  shut  in  an  urn  of  brass ! 

VI 

Dear  is  the  memory  of  our  wedded  lives, 
And  dear  the  last  embraces  of  our  wives 
And  their  warm  tears:  but  all  hath  suffer'd  change: 
For  surely  now  our  household  hearths  are  cold: 
Our  sons  inherit  us :  our  looks  are  strange  : 
And  we  should  come  like  ghosts  to  trouble  joy. 
Or  else  the  island  princes  over-bold 
Have  eat  our  substance,  and  the  minstrel  sings 
Before  them  of  the  ten  years'  war  in  Troy, 
And  our  great  deeds,  as  half-forgotten  things. 
Is  there  confusion  in  the  little  isle? 
Let  what  is  broken  so  remain. 
The  Gods  are  hard  to  reconcile: 
'T  is  hard  to  settle  order  once  again. 
There  is  confusion  worse  than  death, 
Trouble  on  trouble,  pain  on  pain, 
Long  labour  unto  aged  breath, 
[  46] 


THE    LOTOS-EATERS 

Sore  task  to  hearts  worn  out  by  many  wars 

And  eyes  grown  dim  with  gazing  on  the  pilot-stars. 

VII 

But,  propt  on  beds  of  amaranth  and  moly, 
How  sweet  (while  warm  airs  lull  us,  blowing  lowly) 
With  half-dropt  eyelid  still, 
Beneath  a  heaven  dark  and  holy, 
To  watch  the  long  bright  river  drawing  slowly 
His  waters  from  the  purple  hill — 
To  hear  the  dewy  echoes  calling 
From  cave  to  cave  thro'  the  thick-twined  vine — 
To  watch  the  emerald-colour' d  water  falling 
Thro'  many  a  wov'n  acanthus-wreath  divine! 
Only  to  hear  and  see  the  far-off  sparkling  brine, 
Only  to  hear  were  sweet,  stretch'd  out  beneath  the 
pine. 

VIII 

The  Lotos  blooms  below  the  barren  peak: 
The  Lotos  blows  by  every  winding  creek: 
All  day  the  wind  breathes  low  with  mellower  tone: 
Thro'  every  hollow  cave  and  alley  lone 
Round  and  round  the  spicy  downs  the  yellow  Lotos- 
dust  is  blown. 

We  have  had  enough  of  action,  and  of  motion  we, 
Roll'd  to  starboard,  roll'd  to  larboard,  when  the  surge 

was  seething  free, 

Where   the  wallowing  monster  spouted   his   foam- 
fountains  in  the  sea. 

Let  us  swear  an  oath,  and  keep  it  with  an  equal  mind, 
In  the  hollow  Lotos-land  to  live  and  lie  reclined 
[47] 


MELODIES    AND    PICTURES 

On  the  hills  like  Gods  together,  careless  of  mankind. 

For  they  lie  beside  their  nectar,  and  the  bolts  are 
hurl'd 

Far  below  them  in  the  valleys,  and  the  clouds  are 
lightly  curl'd 

Round  their  golden  houses,  girdled  with  the  gleam- 
ing world: 

Where  they  smile  in  secret,  looking  over  wasted  lands, 

Blight  and  famine,  plague  and  earthquake,  roaring 
deeps  and  fiery  sands, 

Clanging  fights,  and  flaming  towns,  and  sinking  ships, 
and  praying  hands. 

But  they  smile,  they  find  a  music  centred  in  a  doleful 
song 

Steaming  up,  a  lamentation  and  an  ancient  tale  of 
wrong, 

Like  a  tale  of  little  meaning  tho'  the  words  are  strong; 

Chanted  from  an  ill-used  race  of  men  that  cleave  the 
soil, 

Sow  the  seed,  and  reap  the  harvest  with  enduring  toil, 

Storing  yearly  little  dues  of  wheat,  and  wine  and  oil ; 

Till  they  perish  and  they  suffer — some,  'tis  whis- 
per'd —  down  in  hell 

Suffer  endless  anguish,  others  in  Elysian  valleys  dwell, 

Resting  weary  limbs  at  last  on  beds  of  asphodel. 

Surely,  surely,  slumber  is  more  sweet  than  toil,  the 
shore 

Than  labour  in  the  deep  mid-ocean,  wind  and  wave 
and  oar; 

Oh  rest  ye,  brother  mariners,  we  will  not  wander  more. 

[48] 


ISABEL 

ISABEL 

I 

EYES  not  down-dropt  nor  over-bright,  but  fed 
With  the  clear-pointed  flame  of  chastity, 
Clear,  without  heat,  undying,  tended  by 

Pure  vestal  thoughts  in  the  translucent  fane 
Of  her  still  spirit ;  locks  not  wide-dispread, 
Madonna- wise  on  either  side  her  head; 
Sweet  lips  whereon  perpetually  did  reign 
The  summer  calm  of  golden  charity, 
Were  fixed  shadows  of  thy  fixed  mood, 

Revered  Isabel,  the  crown  and  head, 
The  stately  flower  of  female  fortitude, 

Of  perfect  wifehood  and  pure  lowlihead. 

II 

The  intuitive  decision  of  a  bright 

And  thorough-edged  intellect  to  part 

Error  from  crime;  a  prudence  to  withhold; 

The  laws  of  marriage  character* d  in  gold 
Upon  the  blanched  tablets  of  her  heart; 
A  love  still  burning  upward,  giving  light 
To  read  those  laws ;  an  accent  very  low 
In  blandishment,  but  a  most  silver  flow 

Of  subtle-paced  counsel  in  distress, 
Right  to  the  heart  and  brain,  tho'  undescried, 

Winning  its  way  with  extreme  gentleness 
Thro'  all  the  outworks  of  suspicious  pride ; 
A  courage  to  endure  and  to  obey; 
A  hate  of  gossip  parlance,  and  of  sway, 
I  49] 


MELODIES   AND    PICTURES 

Crown'd  Isabel,  thro'  all  her  placid  life, 
The  queen  of  marriage,  a  most  perfect  wife. 

in 

The  mellow'd  reflex  of  a  winter  moon ; 
A  clear  stream  flowing  with  a  muddy  one, 
Till  in  its  onward  current  it  absorbs 

With  swifter  movement  and  in  purer  light 

The  vexed  eddies  of  its  wayward  brother: 
A  leaning  and  upbearing  parasite, 
Clothing  the  stem,  which  else  had  fallen  quite 
With  cluster'd  flower-bells  and  ambrosial  orbs 
Of  rich  fruit-bunches  leaning  on  each  other — 
Shadow  forth  thee: — the  world  hath  not  another 
(Tho'  all  her  fairest  forms  are  types  of  thee, 
And  thou  of  God  in  thy  great  charity) 
Of  such  a  finish'd  chasten'd  purity. 


MARIANA 

'Mariana  in  the  moated  grange.' 

Measure  for  Measure 

WITH  blackest  moss  the  flower-plots 

Were  thickly  crusted,  one  and  all: 
The  rusted  nails  fell  from  the  knots 

That  held  the  pear  to  the  gable-wall. 
The  broken  sheds  look'd  sad  and  strange: 

Unlifted  was  the  clinking  latch; 

Weeded  and  worn  the  ancient  thatch 
Upon  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said,  'My  life  is  dreary, 
[50] 


MARIANA 

He  cometh  not,'  she  said; 

She  said,  'I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

I  would  that  I  were  dead!' 

Her  tears  fell  with  the  dews  at  even; 

Her  tears  fell  ere  the  dews  were  dried; 
She  could  not  look  on  the  sweet  heaven, 

Either  at  morn  or  eventide. 
After  the  flitting  of  the  bats, 

When  thickest  dark  did  trance  the  sky, 
She  drew  her  casement-curtain  by, 
And  glanced  athwart  the  glooming  flats. 
She  only  said,  'The  night  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,'  she  said; 

She  said,  'I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

I  would  that  I  were  dead!' 

Upon  the  middle  of  the  night, 

Waking  she  heard  the  night-fowl  crow: 
The  cock  sung  out  an  hour  ere  light: 

From  the  dark  fen  the  oxen's  low 
Came  to  her:  without  hope  of  change, 
In  sleep  she  seem'd  to  walk  forlorn, 
Till  cold  winds  woke  the  gray-eyed  morn 
About  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said,  'The  day  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,'  she  said; 

She  said,  'I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

I  would  that  I  were  dead!' 

About  a  stone-cast  from  the  wall 

A  sluice  with  blacken'd  waters  slept, 
C  51  ] 


MELODIES    AND    PICTURES 

And  o'er  it  many,  round  and  small, 

The  cluster'd  marish-mosses  crept. 
Hard  by  a  poplar  shook  alway, 

All  silver-green  with  gnarled  bark: 
For  leagues  no  other  tree  did  mark 
The  level  waste,  the  rounding  gray. 
She  only  said,  fMy  life  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,'  she  said; 

She  said,  'I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

I  would  that  I  were  dead!' 

And  ever  when  the  moon  was  low, 

And  the  shrill  winds  were  up  and  away, 
In  the  white  curtain,  to  and  fro, 

She  saw  the  gusty  shadow  sway. 
But  when  the  moon  was  very  low, 

And  wild  winds  bound  within  their  cell, 
The  shadow  of  the  poplar  fell 
Upon  her  bed,  across  her  brow. 

She  only  said,  'The  night  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,'  she  said; 

She  said,  '  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

I  would  that  I  were  dead!' 

All  day  within  the  dreamy  house, 
The  doors  upon  their  hinges  creak'd; 

The  blue  fly  sung  in  the  pane ;  the  mouse 
Behind  the  mouldering  wainscot  shriek'd, 

Or  from  the  crevice  peer'd  about. 
Old  faces  glimmer'd  thro'  the  doors, 
Old  footsteps  trod  the  upper  floors, 

Old  voices  called  her  from  without. 
[  52  ] 


A   DREAM    OF   FAIR   WOMEN 

She  only  said,  'My  life  is  dreary, 
He  cometh  not/  she  said; 

She  said,  fl  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead!' 

The  sparrow's  chirrup  on  the  roof, 

The  slow  clock  ticking,  and  the  sound 
Which  to  the  wooing  wind  aloof 

The  poplar  made,  did  all  confound 
Her  sense ;  but  most  she  loathed  the  hour 
When  the  thick-moted  sunbeam  lay 
Athwart  the  chambers,  and  the  day 
Was  sloping  toward  his  western  bower. 
Then,  said  she,  'I  am  very  dreary, 

He  will  not  come,'  she  said; 

She  wept,  'I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

Oh  God,  that  I  were  dead!' 


A   DREAM   OF   FAIR   WOMEN 

I  READ,  before  my  eyelids  dropt  their  shade, 
'  The  Legend  of  Good  Women,'  long  ago 

Sung  by  the  morning-star  of  song,  who  made 
His  music  heard  below; 

Dan  Chaucer,  the  first  warbler,  whose  sweet  breath 
Preluded  those  melodious  bursts  that  fill 

The  spacious  times  of  great  Elizabeth 
With  sounds  that  echo  still. 

And,  for  a  while,  the  knowledge  of  his  art 
Held  me  above  the  subject,  as  strong  gales 
[  53] 


MELODIES    AND    PICTURES 

Hold  swollen  clouds  from  raining,  tho'  my  heart, 
Brimful  of  those  wild  tales, 

Charged  both  mine  eyes  with  tears.  In  every  land 

I  saw,  wherever  light  illumineth, 
Beauty  and  anguish  walking  hand  in  hand 

The  downward  slope  to  death. 

Those  far-renowned  brides  of  ancient  song 
Peopled  the  hollow  dark,  like  burning  stars, 

And  I  heard  sounds  of  insult,  shame,  and  wrong, 
And  trumpets  blown  for  wars; 

And  clattering  flints  batter'd  with  clanging  hoofs; 

And  I  saw  crowds  in  column' d  sanctuaries; 
And  forms  that  pass'd  at  windows  and  on  roofs 

Of  marble  palaces ; 

Corpses  across  the  threshold;  heroes  tall 

Dislodging  pinnacle  and  parapet 
Upon  the  tortoise  creeping  to  the  wall; 

Lances  in  ambush  set; 

And  high  shrine-doors  burst  thro'  with  heated  blasts 
That  run  before  the  fluttering  tongues  of  fire; 

White  surf  wind-scatter'd  over  sails  and  masts, 
And  ever  climbing  higher; 

Squadrons  and  squares  of  men  in  brazen  plates, 
Scaffolds,  still  sheets  of  water,  divers  woes, 

Ranges  of  glimmering  vaults  with  iron  grates, 
And  hush'd  seraglios. 

[54] 


A    DREAM    OF    FAIR   WOMEN 

So  shape  chased  shape  as  swift  as,  when  to  land 
Bluster  the  winds  and  tides  the  self-same  way, 

Crisp  foam-flakes  scud  along  the  level  sand, 
Torn  from  the  fringe  of  spray. 

I  started  once,  or  seem'd  to  start  in  pain, 

Resolved  on  noble  things,  and  strove  to  speak, 

As  when  a  great  thought  strikes  along  the  brain, 
And  flushes  all  the  cheek. 

And  once  my  arm  was  lifted  to  hew  down 

A  cavalier  from  off  his  saddle-bow, 
That  bore  a  lady  from  a  leaguer'd  town; 

And  then,  I  know  not  how, 

All  those  sharp  fancies,  by  down-lapsing  thought 
Stream' d  onward,  lost  their  edges,  and  did  creep 

Roll'd  on  each  other,  rounded,  smooth'd,  and  brought 
Into  the  gulfs  of  sleep. 

At  last  methought  that  I  had  wander'd  far 
In  an  old  wood:  fresh-wash' d  in  coolest  dew 

The  maiden  splendours  of  the  morning  star 
Shook  in  the  stedfast  blue. 

Enormous  elm-tree-boles  did  stoop  and  lean 
Upon  the  dusky  brushwood  underneath 

Their  broad  curved  branches,  fledged  with  clearest 

green, 
New  from  its  silken  sheath. 

The  dim  red  morn  had  died,  her  journey  done, 
And  with  dead  lips  smiled  at  the  twilight  plain, 
[  55  ] 


MELODIES    AND    PICTURES 

Half-fall' n  across  the  threshold  of  the  sun, 
Never  to  rise  again. 

There  was  no  motion  in  the  dumb  dead  air, 

Not  any  song  of  bird  or  sound  of  rill; 
Gross  darkness  of  the  inner  sepulchre 

Is  not  so  deadly  still 

As  that  wide  forest.  Growths  of  jasmine  turn'd 
Their  humid  arms  festooning  tree  to  tree, 

And  at  the  root  thro'  lush  green  grasses  burn'd 
The  red  anemone. 

I  knew  the  flowers,  I  knew  the  leaves,  I  knew 
The  tearful  glimmer  of  the  languid  dawn 

On  those  long,  rank,  dark  wood-walks  drench'd  in  dew, 
Leading  from  lawn  to  lawn. 

The  smell  of  violets,  hidden  in  the  green, 
Pour'd  back  into  my  empty  soul  and  frame 

The  times  when  I  remember  tcJ  have  been 
Joyful  and  free  from  blame. 

And  from  within  me  a  clear  under-tone 

Thrill'd  thro'  mine  ears  in  that  unblissful  clime, 

'Pass  freely  thro':  the  wood  is  all  thine  own, 
Until  the  end  of  time." 

At  length  I  saw  a  lady  within  call, 

Stiller  than  chisell'd  marble,  standing  there; 

A  daughter  of  the  gods,  divinely  tall, 
And  most  divinely  fair. 

[  56  ] 


A    DREAM    OF    FAIR   WOMEN 

Her  loveliness  with  shame  and  with  surprise 
Froze  my  swift  speech :  she  turning  on  my  face 

The  star-like  sorrows  of  immortal  eyes, 
Spoke  slowly  in  her  place. 

'I  had  great  beauty:  ask  thou  not  my  name: 
No  one  can  be  more  wise  than  destiny. 

Many  drew  swords  and  died.  Where'er  I  came 
I  brought  calamity.' 

'No  marvel,  sovereign  lady:  in  fair  field 
Myself  for  such  a  face  had  boldly  died,' 

I  answer'd  free;  and  turning  I  appeal'd 
To  one  that  stood  beside. 

But  she,  with  sick  and  scornful  looks  averse, 
To  her  full  height  her  stately  stature  draws; 

'My  youth,'  she  said,  'was  blasted  with  a  curse: 
This  woman  was  the  cause. 

'  I  was  cut  off  from  hope  in  that  sad  place, 
Which  men  call'd  Aulis  in  those  iron  years: 

My  father  held  his  hand  upon  his  face; 
I,  blinded  with  my  tears, 

'Still  strove  to  speak:  my  voice  was  thick  with  sighs 

As  in  a  dream.  Dimly  I  could  descry 
The  stern  black-bearded  kings  with  wolfish  eyes, 

Waiting  to  see  me  die. 

'The  high  masts  flicker'd  as  they  lay  afloat; 

The  crowds,  the  temples,  waver'd,  and  the  shore; 

[  57] 


MELODIES    AND    PICTURES 

The  bright  death  quiver'd  at  the  victim's  throat; 
Touch'd;  and  I  knew  no  more.' 

Whereto  the  other  with  a  downward  brow: 
'I  would  the  white  cold  heavy-plunging  foam, 

Whirl'd  by  the  wind,  had  roll'd  me  deep  below, 
Then  when  I  left  my  home.' 

Her  slow  full  words  sank  thro'  the  silence  drear, 
As  thunder-drops  fall  on  a  sleeping  sea: 

Sudden  I  heard  a  voice  that  cried,  'Come  here, 
That  I  may  look  on  thee.' 

I  turning  saw,  throned  on  a  flowery  rise, 
One  sitting  on  a  crimson  scarf  unroll'd; 

A  queen,  with  swarthy  cheeks  and  bold  black  eyes, 
Brow-bound  with  burning  gold. 

She,  flashing  forth  a  haughty  smile,  began: 
'I  govern'd  men  by  change,  and  so  I  sway'd 

All  moods.  'T  is  long  since  I  have  seen  a  man. 
Once,  like  the  moon,  I  made 

'The  ever-shifting  currents  of  the  blood 
According  to  my  humour  ebb  and  flow. 

I  have  no  men  to  govern  in  this  wood: 
That  makes  my  only  woe. 

'Nay — yet  it  chafes  me  that  I  could  not  bend 
One  will;  nor  tame  and  tutor  with  mine  eye 

That  dull  cold-blooded  Caesar.  Prythee,  friend, 
Where  is  Mark  Antony? 

[  58] 


A   DREAM    OF    FAIR   WOMEN 

'The  man,  ray  lover,  with  whom  I  rode  sublime 
On  Fortune's  neck:  we  sat  as  God  by  God: 

The  Nilus  would  have  risen  before  his  time 
And  flooded  at  our  nod. 

'We  drank  the  Libyan  Sun  to  sleep,  and  lit 
Lamps  which  out-burn' d  Canopus.  O  my  life 

In  Egypt!  O  the  dalliance  and  the  wit, 
The  flattery  and  the  strife, 

'And  the  wild  kiss,  when  fresh  from  war's  alarms, 

My  Hercules,  my  Roman  Antony, 
My  mailed  Bacchus  leapt  into  my  arms, 

Contented  there  to  die! 

'And  there  he  died:  and  when  I  heard  my  name 
Sigh'd  forth  with  life  I  would  not  brook  my  fear 

Of  the  other:  with  a  worm  I  balk'd  his  fame. 
What  else  was  left?  look  here!' 

(With  that  she  tore  her  robe  apart,  and  half 
The  polish' d  argent  of  her  breast  to  sight 

Laid  bare.  Thereto  she  pointed  with  a  laugh, 
Showing  the  aspick's  bite.) 

'I  died  a  Queen.  The  Roman  soldier  found 
Me  lying  dead,  my  crown  about  my  brows, 

A  name  for  ever! — lying  robed  and  crown'd, 
Worthy  a  Roman  spouse.' 

Her  warbling  voice,  a  lyre  of  widest  range 

Struck  by  all  passion,  did  fall  down  and  glance 
[  59  ] 


MELODIES    AND    PICTURES 

From  tone  to  tone,  and  glided  thro'  all  change 
Of  liveliest  utterance. 

When  she  made  pause  I  knew  not  for  delight; 

Because  with  sudden  motion  from  the  ground 
She  raised  her  piercing  orbs,  and  fill'd  with  light 

The  interval  of  sound. 

Still  with  their  fires  Love  tipt  his  keenest  darts; 

As  once  they  drew  into  two  burning  rings 
All  beams  of  Love,  melting  the  mighty  hearts 

Of  captains  and  of  kings. 

Slowly  my  sense  undazzled.  Then  I  heard 
A  noise  of  some  one  coming  thro'  the  lawn, 

And  singing  clearer  than  the  crested  bird 
That  claps  his  wings  at  dawn. 

'The  torrent  brooks  of  hallow'd  Israel 

From  craggy  hollows  pouring,  late  and  soon, 

Sound  all  night  long,  in  falling  thro'  the  dell, 
Far-heard  beneath  the  moon. 

'The  balmy  moon  of  blessed  Israel 

Floods  all  the  deep-blue  gloom  with  beams  divine: 
All  night  the  splinter'd  crags  that  wall  the  dell 

With  spires  of  silver  shine.' 

As  one  that  museth  where  broad  sunshine  laves 
The  lawn  by  some  cathedral,  thro'  the  door 

Hearing  the  holy  organ  rolling  waves 
Of  sound  on  roof  and  floor 
[  60  ] 


A    DKEAM    OF    FAIR    WOMEN 

Within,  and  anthem  sung,  is  charm'd  and  tied 
To  where  he  stands, — so  stood  I,  when  that  flow 

Of  music  left  the  lips  of  her  that  died 
To  save  her  father's  vow; 

The  daughter  of  the  warrior  Gileadite, 
A  maiden  pure;  as  when  she  went  along 

From  Mizpeh's  tower'd  gate  with  welcome  light, 
With  timbrel  and  with  song. 

My  words  leapt  forth:  ' Heaven  heads  the  count  of 
crimes 

With  that  wild  oath.'  She  render'd  answer  high: 
'  Not  so,  nor  once  alone ;  a  thousand  times 

I  would  be  born  and  die. 

'Single  I  grew,  like  some  green  plant,  whose  root 
Creeps  to  the  garden  water-pipes  beneath, 

Feeding  the  flower;  but  ere  my  flower  to  fruit 
Changed,  I  was  ripe  for  death. 

'My  God,  my  land,  my  father — these  did  move 
Me  from  my  bliss  of  life,  that  Nature  gave, 

Lower' d  softly  with  a  threefold  cord  of  love 
Down  to  a  silent  grave. 

'And  I  went  mourning,  "No  fair  Hebrew  boy 
Shall  smile  away  my  maiden  blame  among 

The  Hebrew  mothers"  —  emptied  of  all  joy, 
Leaving  the  dance  and  song, 

'Leaving  the  olive-gardens  far  below, 

Leaving  the  promise  of  my  bridal  bower, 
[  61  ] 


MELODIES   AND    PICTURES 

The  valleys  of  grape-loaded  vines  that  glow 
Beneath  the  battled  tower. 

'The  light  white  cloud  swam  over  us.  Anon 
We  heard  the  lion  roaring  from  his  den; 

We  saw  the  large  white  stars  rise  one  by  one, 
Or,  from  the  darken' d  glen, 

'Saw  God  divide  the  night  with  flying  flame, 
And  thunder  on  the  everlasting  hills. 

I  heard  Him,  for  He  spake,  and  grief  became 
A  solemn  scorn  of  ills. 

'When  the  next  moon  was  roll'd  into  the  sky, 
Strength  came  to  me  that  equall'd  my  desire. 

How  beautiful  a  thing  it  was  to  die 
For  God  and  for  my  sire! 

'It  comforts  me  in  this  one  thought  to  dwell, 
That  I  subdued  me  to  my  father's  will; 

Because  the  kiss  he  gave  me,  ere  I  fell, 
Sweetens  the  spirit  still. 

'Moreover  it  is  written  that  my  race 

Hew'd  Ammon,  hip  and  thigh,  from  Aroer 

On  Arnon  unto  Minneth.'  Here  her  face 
Glow'd,  as  I  look'd  at  her. 

She  lock'd  her  lips:  she  left  me  where  I  stood: 
'Glory  to  God,'  she  sang,  and  past  afar, 

Thridding  the  sombre  boskage  of  the  wood, 
Toward  the  morning-star. 
[  62] 


A    DREAM    OF    FAIR   WOMEN 

Losing  her  carol  I  stood  pensively, 

As  one  that  from  a  casement  leans  his  head, 

When  midnight  bells  cease  ringing  suddenly, 
And  the  old  year  is  dead. 

'Alas!  alas!'  a  low  voice,  full  of  care, 

Murmur'd  beside  me:  'Turn  and  look  on  me: 

I  am  that  Rosamond,  whom  men  call  fair, 
If  what  I  was  I  be. 

'Would  I  had  been  some  maiden  coarse  and  poor! 

O  me,  that  I  should  ever  see  the  light! 
Those  dragon  eyes  of  anger'd  Eleanor 

Do  hunt  me,  day  and  night.' 

She  ceased  in  tears,  fallen  from  hope  and  trust: 
To  whom  the  Egyptian:  'Oh,  you  tamely  died! 

You  should  have  clung  to  Fulvia's  waist,  and  thrust 
The  dagger  thro'  her  side.' 

With  that  sharp  sound  the  white  dawn's  creeping  beams, 
Stol'n  to  my  brain,  dissolved  the  mystery 

Of  folded  sleep.  The  captain  of  my  dreams 
Ruled  in  the  eastern  sky. 

Morn  broaden'd  on  the  borders  of  the  dark, 
Ere  I  saw  her,  who  clasp'd  in  her  last  trance 

Her  murder'd  father's  head,  or  Joan  of  Arc, 
A  light  of  ancient  France ; 

Or  her  who  knew  that  Love  can  vanquish  Death, 
Who  kneeling,  with  one  arm  about  her  king, 
[63] 


MELODIES    AND    PICTURES 

Drew  forth  the  poison  with  her  balmy  breath, 
Sweet  as  new  buds  in  Spring. 

No  memory  labours  longer  from  the  deep 

Gold-mines  of  thought  to  lift  the  hidden  ore 

That  glimpses,  moving  up,  than  I  from  sleep 
To  gather  and  tell  o'er 

Each  little  sound  and  sight.  With  what  dull  pain 
Compass'd,  how  eagerly  I  sought  to  strike 

Into  that  wondrous  track  of  dreams  again  ! 
But  no  two  dreams  are  like. 

As  when  a  soul  laments,  which  hath  been  blest, 
Desiring  what  is  mingled  with  past  years, 

In  yearnings  that  can  never  be  exprest 
By  sighs  or  groans  or  tears ; 

Because  all  words,  tho'  cull'd  with  choicest  art, 
Failing  to  give  the  bitter  of  the  sweet, 

Wither  beneath  the  palate,  and  the  heart 
Faints,  faded  by  its  heat. 


SIR  LAUNCELOT  AND  QUEEN  GUINEVERE 

A    FRAGMENT 

LIKE  souls  that  balance  joy  and  pain, 
With  tears  and  smiles  from  heaven  again 
The  maiden  Spring  upon  the  plain 
Came  in  a  sun-lit  fall  of  rain. 

In  crystal  vapour  everywhere 
[  64  ] 


SIR    LAUNCELOT    AND    QUEEN    GUINEVERE 

Blue  isles  of  heaven  laugh'd  between, 
And  far,  in  forest-deeps  unseen, 
The  topmost  elm-tree  gather'd  green 
From  draughts  of  balmy  air. 

Sometimes  the  linnet  piped  his  song: 
Sometimes  the  throstle  whistled  strong: 
Sometimes  the  sparhawk,  wheel'd  along, 
Hush'd  all  the  groves  from  fear  of  wrong: 

By  grassy  capes  with  fuller  sound 
In  curves  the  yellowing  river  ran, 
And  drooping  chestnut-buds  began 
To  spread  into  the  perfect  fan, 

Above  the  teeming  ground. 

Then,  in  the  boyhood  of  the  year, 
Sir  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guinevere 
Rode  thro'  the  coverts  of  the  deer, 
With  blissful  treble  ringing  clear. 

She  seem'd  a  part  of  joyous  Spring; 
A  gown  of  grass-green  silk  she  wore, 
Buckled  with  golden  clasps  before; 
A  light-green  tuft  of  plumes  she  bore 

Closed  in  a  golden  ring. 

Now  on  some  twisted  ivy-net, 

Now  by  some  tinkling  rivulet, 

In  mosses  mixt  with  violet 

Her  cream- white  mule  his  pastern  set: 

And  fleeter  now  she  skimm'd  the  plains 
Than  she  whose  elfin  prancer  springs 
By  night  to  eery  warblings, 
[  65  ] 


MELODIES    AND    PICTURES 

When  all  the  glimmering  moorland  rings 
With  jingling  bridle-reins. 

As  fast  she  fled  thro'  sun  and  shade, 
The  happy  winds  upon  her  play'd, 
Blowing  the  ringlet  from  the  braid: 
She  look'd  so  lovely,  as  she  sway'd 

The  rein  with  dainty  finger-tips, 
A  man  had  given  all  other  bliss, 
And  all  his  worldly  worth  for  this, 
To  waste  his  whole  heart  in  one  kiss 

Upon  her  perfect  lips. 


[66  ] 


II 

BALLADS,   IDYLS 
AND    CHARACTER-PIECES 


BALLADS 
THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT 

PART    I 

ON  either  side  the  river  lie 
Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye, 
That  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky, 
And  thro'  the  field  the  road  runs  by 

To  many-tower'd  Camelot; 
And  up  and  down  the  people  go, 
Gazing  where  the  lilies  blow 
Round  an  island  there  below, 

The  island  of  Shalott. 

Willows  whiten,  aspens  quiver, 
Little  breezes  dusk  and  shiver 
Thro'  the  wave  that  runs  for  ever 
By  the  island  in  the  river 

Flowing  down  to  Camelot. 
Four  gray  walls,  and  four  gray  towers, 
Overlook  a  space  of  flowers, 
And  the  silent  isle  imbowers 

The  Lady  of  Shalott 

By  the  margin,  willow-veil' d 
Slide  the  heavy  barges  trail'd 
By  slow  horses;  and  unhail'd 
The  shallop  flitteth  silken-sail'd 

Skimming  down  to  Camelot: 
But  who  hath  seen  her  wave  her  hand? 
[  69  ] 


BALLADS 

Or  at  the  casement  seen  her  stand  ? 
Or  is  she  known  in  all  the  land, 
The  Lady  of  Shalott? 

Only  reapers,  reaping  early 
In  among  the  bearded  barley, 
Hear  a  song  that  echoes  cheerly 
From  the  river  winding  clearly, 

Down  to  tower'd  Camelot: 
And  by  the  moon  the  reaper  weary, 
Piling  sheaves  in  uplands  airy, 
Listening,  whispers  f'Tis  the  fairy 

Lady  of  Shalott.' 

PART    II 

There  she  weaves  by  night  and  day 
A  magic  web  with  colours  gay. 
She  has  heard  a  whisper  say, 
A  curse  is  on  her  if  she  stay 

To  look  down  to  Camelot. 
She  knows  not  what  the  curse  may  be, 
And  so  she  weaveth  steadily, 
And  little  other  care  hath  she, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  moving  thro'  a  mirror  clear 
That  hangs  before  her  all  the  year, 
Shadows  of  the  world  appear. 
There  she  sees  the  highway  near 

Winding  down  to  Camelot: 
There  the  river  eddy  whirls, 
[  70] 


THE    LADY    OF    SHALOTT 

And  there  the  surly  village-churls, 
And  the  red  cloaks  of  market  girls, 
Pass  onward  from  Shalott. 

Sometimes  a  troop  of  damsels  glad, 
An  abbot  on  an  ambling  pad, 
Sometimes  a  curly  shepherd-lad, 
Or  long-hair' d  page  in  crimson  clad, 

Goes  by  to  tower'd  Camelot: 
And  sometimes  thro'  the  mirror  blue 
The  knights  come  riding  two  and  two: 
She  hath  no  loyal  knight  and  true, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

But  in  her  web  she  still  delights 
To  weave  the  mirror's  magic  sights, 
For  often  thro'  the  silent  nights 
A  funeral,  with  plumes  and  lights 

And  music,  went  to  Camelot: 
Or  when  the  moon  was  overhead, 
Came  two  young  lovers  lately  wed ; 
'  1  am  half  sick  of  shadows,'  said 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

PART    III 

A  bow-shot  from  her  bower-eaves, 
He  rode  between  the  barley-sheaves, 
The  sun  came  dazzling  thro'  the  leaves, 
And  flamed  upon  the  brazen  greaves 

Of  bold  Sir  Lancelot. 
A  red-cross  knight  for  ever  kneel'd 
[71  ] 


BALLADS 

To  a  lady  in  his  shield, 
That  sparkled  on  the  yellow  field, 
Beside  remote  Shalott. 

The  gemmy  bridle  glitter'd  free, 
Like  to  some  branch  of  stars  we  see 
Hung  in  the  golden  Galaxy. 
The  bridle  bells  rang  merrily 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot: 
And  from  his  blazon'd  baldric  slung 
A  mighty  silver  bugle  hung, 
And  as  he  rode  his  armour  rung, 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

All  in  the  blue  unclouded  weather 
Thick-jewell'd  shone  the  saddle-leather, 
The  helmet  and  the  helmet-feather 
Burn'd  like  one  burning  flame  together, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
As  often  thro'  the  purple  night, 
Below  the  starry  clusters  bright, 
Some  bearded  meteor,  trailing  light, 

Moves  over  still  Shalott. 

His  broad  clear  brow  in  sunlight  glow'd; 
On  burnish'd  hooves  his  war-horse  trode; 
From  underneath  his  helmet  flow'd 
His  coal-black  curls  as  on  he  rode, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
From  the  bank  and  from  the  river 
He  flash'd  into  the  crystal  mirror, 
[  72] 


THE    LADY    OF    SHALOTT 

'Tirra  lirra/  by  the  river 
Sang  Sir  Lancelot. 

She  left  the  web,  she  left  the  loom, 
She  made  three  paces  thro'  the  room, 
She  saw  the  water-lily  bloom, 
She  saw  the  helmet  and  the  plume, 

She  look'd  down  to  Camelot. 
Out  flew  the  web  and  floated  wide; 
The  mirror  crack'd  from  side  to  side; 
'The  curse  is  come  upon  me,'  cried 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

PART    IV 

In  the  stormy  east-wind  straining, 
The  pale  yellow  woods  were  waning, 
The  broad  stream  in  his  banks  complaining, 
Heavily  the  low  sky  raining 

Over  tower'd  Camelot; 
Down  she  came  and  found  a  boat 
Beneath  a  willow  left  afloat, 
And  round  about  the  prow  she  wrote 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  down  the  river's  dim  expanse 
Like  some  bold  seer  in  a  trance, 
Seeing  all  his  own  mischance — 
With  a  glassy  countenance 

Did  she  look  to  Camelot. 
And  at  the  closing  of  the  day 
She  loosed  the  chain,  and  down  she  lay; 
[  73] 


BALLADS 

The  broad  stream  bore  her  far  away, 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Lying,  robed  in  snowy  white 
That  loosely  flew  to  left  and  right — 
The  leaves  upon  her  falling  light — 
Thro'  the  noises  of  the  night 

She  floated  down  to  Camelot: 
And  as  the  boat-head  wound  along 
The  willowy  hills  and  fields  among, 
They  heard  her  singing  her  last  song, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Heard  a  carol,  mournful,  holy, 
Chanted  loudly,  chanted  lowly, 
Till  her  blood  was  frozen  slowly, 
And  her  eyes  were  darken'd  wholly, 

Turn'd  to  tower'd  Camelot. 
For  ere  she  reach'd  upon  the  tide 
The  first  house  by  the  water-side, 
Singing  in  her  song  she  died, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Under  tower  and  balcony, 

By  garden-wall  and  gallery, 

A  gleaming  shape  she  floated  by, 

Dead-pale  between  the  houses  high, 

Silent  into  Camelot. 
Out  upon  the  wharfs  they  came, 
Knight  and  burgher,  lord  and  dame, 
And  round  the  prow  they  read  her  name, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 
[  74] 


THE    MAY    QUEEN 

Who  is  this?  and  what  is  here? 
And  in  the  lighted  palace  near 
Died  the  sound  of  royal  cheer; 
And  they  cross'd  themselves  for  fear, 

All  the  knights  at  Camelot: 
But  Lancelot  mused  a  little  space; 
He  said,  'She  has  a  lovely  face; 
God  in  his  mercy  lend  her  grace, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott.' 


THE    MAY    QUEEN 

You  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early, 
mother  dear; 

To-morrow  'ill  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad 
New-year; 

Of  all  the  glad  New-year,  mother,  the  maddest  merri- 
est day; 

For  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be 
Queen  o'  the  May. 

There 's  many  a  black  black  eye,  they  say,  but  none 
so  bright  as  mine; 

There 's  Margaret  and  Mary,  there 's  Kate  and  Caro- 
line : 

But  none  so  fair  as  little  Alice  in  all  the  land  they  say, 

So  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be 
Queen  o'  the  May. 

I  sleep  so  sound  all  night,  mother,  that  I  shall  never 
wake, 

[  75] 


BALLADS 

If  you  do  not  call  me  loud  when  the  day  begins  to 
break : 

But  I  must  gather  knots  of  flowers,  and  buds  and  gar- 
lands gay, 

For  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be 
Queen  o'  the  May. 

As  I  came  up  the  valley  whom  think  ye  should  I  see, 

But  Robin  leaning  on  the  bridge  beneath  the  hazel- 
tree? 

He  thought  of  that  sharp  look,  mother,  I  gave  him 
yesterday, 

But  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be 
Queen  o'  the  May. 

He  thought  I  was  a  ghost,  mother,  for  I  was  all  in 

white, 
And  I  ran  by  him  without  speaking,  like  a  flash  of 

light. 
They  call  me  cruel-hearted,  but  I  care  not  what  they 

say, 
For  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be 

Queen  o'  the  May. 

They  say  he 's  dying  all  for  love,  but  that  can  never 

be: 
They  say  his  heart  is  breaking,  mother — what  is  that 

to  me? 
There  's  many  a  bolder  lad  'ill  woo  me  any  summer 

day, 
And  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be 

Queen  o'  the  May. 

[  76] 


THE    MAY    QUEEN 

Little  Effie  shall  go  with  me  to-morrow  to  the  green, 
And  you  '11  be  there,  too,  mother,  to  see  me  made  the 

Queen; 
For  the  shepherd  lads  on  every  side  'ill  come  from  far 

away, 
And  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be 

Queen  o'  the  May. 

The  honeysuckle  round  the  porch  has  wov'n  its  wavy 

bowers, 
And  by  the  meadow-trenches  blow  the  faint  sweet 

cuckoo-flowers ; 
And    the  wild   marsh-marigold   shines   like   fire  in 

swamps  and  hollows  gray, 
And  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be 

Queen  o'  the  May. 

The  night-winds  come  and  go,  mother,  upon  the 
meadow-grass, 

And  the  happy  stars  above  them  seem  to  brighten  as 
they  pass; 

There  will  not  be  a  drop  of  rain  the  whole  of  the  live- 
long day, 

And  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be 
Queen  o'  the  May. 

All  the  valley,  mother,  'ill  be  fresh  and  green  and  still, 
And  the  cowslip  and  the  crowfoot  are  over  all  the  hill, 
And  the  rivulet  in  the  flowery  dale  'ill  merrily  glance 

and  play, 
For  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be 

Queen  o'  the  May. 

[  77  ] 


BALLADS 

So  you  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early, 

mother  dear, 
To-morrow  'ill  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad 

New-year : 
To-morrow  'ill  be  of  all  the  year  the  maddest  merriest 

day, 
For  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be 

Queen  o'  the  May. 

NEW-YEAR'S  EVE 

IF  you  're  waking  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother 

dear, 

For  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New-year. 
It  is  the  last  New-year  that  I  shall  ever  see, 
Then  you  may  lay  me  low  i'  the  mould  and  think  no 

more  of  me. 

To-night  I  saw  the  sun  set:  he  set  and  left  behind 
The  good  old  year,  the  dear  old  time,  and  all  my 

peace  of  mind ; 
And  the  New-year 's  coming  up,  mother,  but  I  shall 

never  see 
The  blossom  on  the  blackthorn,  the  leaf  upon  the  tree. 

Last  May  we  made  a  crown  of  flowers :  we  had  a  merry 

day; 
Beneath  the  hawthorn  on  the  green  they  made  me 

Queen  of  May ; 
And  we  danced  about  the  may-pole  and  in  the  hazel 

copse, 
Till  Charles's  Wain  came  out  above  the  tall  white 

chimney-tops. 

[78] 


THE    MAY    QUEEN 

There  's  not  a  flower  on  all  the  hills :  the  frost  is  on 

the  pane: 

I  only  wish  to  live  till  the  snowdrops  come  again: 
I  wish  the  snow  would  melt  and  the  sun  come  out  on 

high: 
I  long  to  see  a  flower  so  before  the  day  I  die. 

The  building  rook  'ill  caw  from  the  windy  tall  elm- 
tree, 

And  the  tufted  plover  pipe  along  the  fallow  lea, 

And  the  swallow  'ill  come  back  again  with  summer 
o'er  the  wave, 

But  I  shall  lie  alone,  mother,  within  the  mouldering 
grave. 

Upon  the  chancel-casement,  and  upon  that  grave  of 

mine, 
In   the   early  early  morning   the   summer   sun  'ill 

shine, 
Before  the  red  cock  crows  from  the  farm  upon  the 

hill, 
When  you  are  warm-asleep,  mother,  and  all  the  world 

is  still. 

When  the  flowers  come  again,  mother,  beneath  the 

waning  light 
You  '11  never  see  me  more  in  the  long  gray  fields  at 

night; 
When  from  the  dry  dark  wold  the  summer  airs  blow 

cool 
On  the  oat-grass  and  the  sword-grass,  and  the  bulrush 

in  the  pool. 

[79] 


BALLADS 

You  '11  bury  me,  my  mother,  just  beneath  the  haw- 
thorn shade, 

And  you  '11  come  sometimes  and  see  me  where  I  am 
lowly  laid. 

I  shall  not  forget  you,  mother,  I  shall  hear  you  when 
you  pass, 

With  your  feet  above  my  head  in  the  long  and  plea- 
sant grass. 

I  have  been  wild  and  wayward,  but  you  '11  forgive  me 

now; 
You  '11  kiss  me,  my  own  mother,  and  forgive  me  ere 

Jgo; 

Nay,  nay,  you  must  not  weep,  norlet  your  grief  be  wild, 
You  should  not  fret  for  me,  mother,  you  have  another 
child. 

If  I  can  I  '11  come  again,  mother,  from  out  my  resting- 
place  ; 

Tho'  you  '11  not  see  me,  mother,  I  shall  look  upon  your 
face; 

Tho'  I  cannot  speak  a  word,  I  shall  harken  what  you  say, 

And  be  often,  often  with  you  when  you  think  I  'm 
far  away. 

Goodnight,  goodnight,  when  I  have  said  goodnight 
for  evermore, 

And  you  see  me  carried  out  from  the  threshold  of  the 
door; 

Don't  let  Effie  come  to  see  me  till  my  grave  be  grow- 
ing green: 

She  '11  be  a  better  child  to  you  than  ever  I  have  been. 
[  80  ] 


THE   MAY   QUEEN 

She'll  find  my  garden-tools  upon  the  granary  floor: 
Let  her  take  'em:  they  are  hers:  I  shall  never  garden 

more: 
But  tell  her,  when  I  'm  gone,  to  train  the  rosebush 

that  I  set 
About  the  parlour- window  and  the  box  of  mignonette. 

Goodnight,  sweet  mother:  call  me  before  the  day  is 
born. 

All  night  I  lie  awake,  but  I  fall  asleep  at  morn; 

But  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New- 
year, 

So,  if  you  're  waking,  call  me,  call  me  early,  mother 
dear. 

CONCLUSION 

I  THOUGHT  to  pass  away  before,  and  yet  alive  I  am; 
And  in  the  fields  all  round  I  hear  the  bleating  of  the 

lamb. 
How  sadly,  I  remember,  rose  the  morning  of  the 

year! 
To  die  before  the  snowdrop  came, and  now  the  violet 's 

here. 

O  sweet  is  the  new  violet,  that  comes  beneath  the 

skies, 
And  sweeter  is  the  young  lamb's  voice  to  me  that 

cannot  rise, 
And  sweet  is  all  the  land  about,  and  all  the  flowers 

that  blow, 
And  sweeter  far  is  death  than  life  to  me  that  long  to 

g°- 

[  81  ] 


BALLADS 

It  seem'd  so  hard  at  first,  mother,  to  leave  the  blessed 

sun, 
And  now  it  seems  as  hard  to  stay,  and  yet  His  will 

be  done! 

But  still  I  think  it  can't  be  long  before  I  find  release ; 
And  that  good  man,  the  clergyman,  has  told  me  words 

of  peace. 

O  blessings  on  his  kindly  voice   and  on  his   silver 

hair! 
And  blessings  on  his  whole  life  long,  until  he  meet 

"me  there! 

0  blessings  on  his  kindly  heart  and  on  his  silver  head! 
A  thousand  times  I  blest  him,  as  he  knelt  beside  my 

bed. 

He  taught  me  all  the  mercy,  for  he  show'd  me  all  the 

sin. 
Now,  tho'  my  lamp  was  lighted  late,  there  's  One  will 

let  me  in : 
Nor  would  I  now  be  well,  mother,  again  if  that  could 

be, 
For  my  desire  is  but  to  pass  to  Him  that  died  for 

me. 

1  did  not  hear  the  dog  howl,  mother,  or  the  death- 
watch  beat, 

There  came  a  sweeter  token  when  the  night  and  morn- 
ing meet: 

But  sit  beside  my  bed,  mother,  and  put  your  hand  in 
mine, 

And  Effie  on  the  other  side,  and  I  will  tell  the  sign. 
[  82  ] 


All  in  the  wild  March-morning  I  heard  the  angels  call ; 
It  was  when  the  moon  was  setting,  and  the  dark  was 

over  all ; 

The  trees  began  to  whisper,  and  the  wind  began  to  roll, 
And  in  the  wild  March-morning  I  heard  them  call  my 

soul. 

For  lying  broad  awake  I  thought  of  you  and  Effie  dear; 
I  saw  you  sitting  in  the  house,  and  I  no  longer  here ; 
With  all  my  strength  I  pray'd  for  both,  and  so  I  felt 

resign'd, 
And  up  the  valley  came  a  swell  of  music  on  the  wind. 

I  thought  that  it  was  fancy,  and  I  listen'd  in  my  bed, 
And  then  did  something  speak  to  me — I  know  not 

what  was  said; 
For  great  delight  and  shuddering  took  hold  of  all  my 

mind, 
And  up  the  valley  came  again  the  music  on  the  wind. 

But  you  were  sleeping;  and  I  said,  'It 's  not  for  them: 
it 's  mine.' 

And  if  it  come  three  times,  I  thought,  I  take  it  for  a 
sign. 

And  once  again  it  came,  and  close  beside  the  window- 
bars, 

Then  seem'd  to  go  right  up  to  Heaven  and  die  among 
the  stars. 

So  now  I  think  my  time  is  near.  I  trust  it  is.  I  know 
The  blessed  music  went  that  way  my  soul  will  have 
to  go. 

[83] 


BALLADS 

And  for  myself,  indeed,  I  care  not  if  I  go  to-day. 
But,  Erne,  you  must  comfort  her  when  I  am  passed 
away. 

And  say  to  Robin  a  kind  word,  and  tell  him  not  to 

fret; 
There  's  many  a  worthier  than  I,  would  make  him 

happy  yet. 
If  I  had  lived — I  cannot  tell — I  might  have  been  his 

wife; 
But  all  these  things  have  ceased  to  be,  with  my  desire 

of  life. 

O  look !  the  sun  begins  to  rise,  the  heavens  are  in  a 

glow; 
He  shines  upon  a  hundred  fields,  and  all  of  them  I 

know. 
And  there  I  move  no  longer  now,  and  there  his  light 

may  shine  — 
Wild  flowers  in  the  valley  for  other  hands  than  mine. 

O  sweet  and  strange  it  seems  to  me,  that  ere  this  day 

is  done 
The  voice,  that  now  is  speaking,  may  be  beyond  the 

sun — 

For  ever  and  for  ever  with  those  just  souls  and  true — 
And  what  is  life,  that  we  should  moan?  why  make  we 

such  ado? 

For  ever  and  for  ever,  all  in  a  blessed  home — 
And  there  to  wait  a  little  while  till  you  and  Effie 
come — 

C  84] 


IN    THE    CHILDREN  S    HOSPITAL 

To  lie  within  the  light  of  God,  as  I  lie  upon  your 

breast — 
And  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary 

are  at  rest. 


IN   THE   CHILDREN'S    HOSPITAL 

EMMIE 

I 

OUR  doctor  had  call'd  in  another,  I  never  had  seen 

him  before, 
But  he  sent  a  chill  to  my  heart  when  I  saw  him  come 

in  at  the  door, 
Fresh  from  the  surgery-schools  of  France  and  of  other 

lands — 
Harsh  red  hair,  big  voice,  big  chest,  big  merciless 

hands ! 
Wonderful  cures  he  had  done,  O  yes,  but  they  said 

too  of  him 
He  was  happier  using  the  knife  than  in  trying  to  save 

the  limb, 
And  that  I  can  well  believe,  for  he  look'd  so  coarse 

and  so  red, 
I  could  think  he  was  one  of  those  who  would  break 

their  jests  on  the  dead, 
And  mangle  the  living  dog  that  had  loved  him  and 

fawn'd  at  his  knee  — 
Drench' d  with  the  hellish  oorali — that  ever  such  things 

should  be! 

[  85  ] 


BALLADS 

II 

Here  was  a  boy — I  am  sure  that  some  of  our  children 
would  die 

But  for  the  voice  of  Love,  and  the  smile,  and  the  com- 
forting eye  — 

Here  was  a  boy  in  the  ward,  every  bone  seem'd  out 
of  its  place — 

Caught  in  a  mill  and  crush'd — it  was  all  but  a  hope- 
less case: 

And  he  handled  him  gently  enough;  but  his  voice 
and  his  face  were  not  kind, 

And  it  was  but  a  hopeless  case,  he  had  seen  it  and 
made  up  his  mind, 

And  he  said  to  me  roughly  'The  lad  will  need  little 
more  of  your  care.' 

'All  the  more  need,'  I  told  him,  'to  seek  the  Lord 
Jesus  in  prayer; 

They  are  all  his  children  here,  and  I  pray  for  them  all 
as  my  own:' 

But  he  turn'd  to  me,  'Ay,  good  woman,  can  prayer  set 
a  broken  bone?' 

Then  he  mutter'd  half  to  himself,  but  I  know  that  I 
heard  him  say 

'All  very  well — but  the  good  Lord  Jesus  has  had  his 
day.' 

in 
Had?  has  it  come?  It  has  only  dawn'd.  It  will  come 

by  and  by. 

O  how  could  I  serve  in  the  wards  if  the  hope  of  the 
world  were  a  lie? 

[  86  ] 


IN    THE    CHILDREN  S    HOSPITAL 

How  could  I  bear  with  the  sights  and  the  loathsome 

smells  of  disease 
But  that  He  said  'Ye  do  it  to  me,  when  ye  do  it  to 

these'? 

IV 

So  he  went.  And  we  past  to  this  ward  where  the 

younger  children  are  laid: 
Here  is  the  cot  of  our  orphan,  our  darling,  our  meek 

little  maid; 
Empty  you  see  just  now!  We  have  lost  her  who  loved 

her  so  much — 
Patient  of  pain  tho'  as  quick  as  a  sensitive  plant  to 

the  touch; 
Hers  was  the  prettiest  prattle,  it  often  moved  me  to 

tears, 
Hers  was  the  gratefullest  heart  I  have  found  in  a  child 

of  her  years — 
Nay,  you  remember  our  Emmie ;  you  used  to  send  her 

the  flowers; 
How  she  would  smile  at  'em,  play  with  'em,  talk  to 

'em  hours  after  hours! 
They  that  can  wander  at  will  where  the  works  of  the 

Lord  are  reveal'd 
Little  guess  what  joy  can  be  got  from  a  cowslip  out 

of  the  field ; 
Flowers  to  these  'spirits  in  prison'  are  all  they  can 

know  of  the  spring, 
They  freshen  and  sweeten  the  wards  like  the  waft  of 

an  Angel's  wing; 
And  she  lay  with  a  flower  in  one  hand  and  her  thin 

hands  crost  on  her  breast — 
[87  ] 


BALLADS 

Wan,  but  as  pretty  as  heart  can  desire,  and  we  thought 

her  at  rest, 
Quietly  sleeping — so  quiet,  our  doctor  said  '  Poor  little 

dear, 
Nurse,  I  must  do  it  to-morrow ;  she  '11  never  live  thro' 

it,  I  fear.' 

v 

I  walk'd  with  our  kindly  old  doctor  as  far  as  the  head 

of  the  stair, 
Then  I  return'd  to  the  ward;  the  child  didn't  see  I 

was  there. 

VI 

Never  since  I  was  nurse,  had  I  been  so  grieved  and  so 

vext! 
Emmie  had  heard  him.  Softly  she  call'd  from  her  cot 

to  the  next, 
'He  says  I  shall  never  live  thro'  it,  O  Annie,  what 

shall  I  do?' 
Annie  consider'd.  'If  I,' said  the  wise  little  Annie,  'was 

you, 
I  should  cry  to  the  dear  Lord  Jesus  to  help  me,  for, 

Emmie,  you  see, 
It's  all  in  the  picture  there:  "Little  children  should 

come  to  me."' 
(Meaning  the  print  that  you  gave  us,  I  find  that  it 

always  can  please 
Our  children,  the  dear  Lord  Jesus  with  children  about 

his  knees.) 
'Yes,  and  I  will/  said  Emmie,  'but  then  if  I  call  to  the 

Lord, 

[  88  ] 


IN    THE    CHILDREN  S    HOSPITAL 

How  should  he  know  that  it 's  me?  such  a  lot  of  beds 

in  the  ward!' 
That  was  a  puzzle  for  Annie.  Again  she  consider'd  and 

said: 
e Emmie,  you  put  out  your  arms,  and  you  leave  'em 

outside  on  the  bed — 
The  Lord  has  so  much  to  see  to!  but,  Emmie,  you  tell 

it  him  plain, 
It 's  the  little  girl  with  her  arms  lying  out  on  the 

counterpane.' 

VII 

I  had  sat  three  nights  by  the  child — I  could  not  watch 

her  for  four — 
My  brain  had  begun  to  reel — I  felt  I  could  do  it  no 

more. 
That  was  my  sleeping-night,  but  I  thought  that  it 

never  would  pass. 
There  was  a  thunderclap  once,  and  a  clatter  of  hail 

on  the  glass, 
And  there  was  a  phantom  cry  that  I  heard  as  I  tost 

about, 
The  motherless  bleat  of  a  lamb  in  the  storm  and  the 

darkness  without; 

My  sleep  was  broken  besides  with  dreams  of  the  dread- 
ful knife 
And  fears  for  our  delicate  Emmie  who  scarce  would 

escape  with  her  life ; 
Then  in  the  gray  of  the  morning  it  seem'd  she  stood 

by  me  and  smiled, 
And  the  doctor  came  at  his  hour,  and  we  went  to  see 

to  the  child. 

[  89  ] 


BALLADS 

VIII 

He  had  brought  his  ghastly  tools:  we  believed  her 

asleep  again — 
Her  dear,  long,  lean,  little  arms  lying  out  on  the 

counterpane ; 
Say  that  His  day  is  done!  Ah  why  should  we  care 

what  they  say? 
The  Lord  of  the  children  had  heard  her,  and  Emmie 

had  past  away. 


THE   CHARGE   OF   THE    LIGHT  BRIGADE 

I 
HALF  a  league,  half  a  league, 

Half  a  league  onward, 
All  in  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 
'Forward,  the  Light  Brigade! 
Charge  for  the  guns!'  he  said: 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

II 

'Forward,  the  Light  Brigade!' 
Was  there  a  man  dismay'd? 
Not  tho'  the  soldier  knew 

Some  one  had  blunder'd: 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply, 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die: 
[  90  ] 


THE    CHARGE    OF    THE    LIGHT    BRIGADE 

Into  the  valley  of  Death 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 


in 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  in  front  of  them 

Volley 'd  and  thunder'd; 
Storm' d  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well, 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  Hell 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

IV 

Flash'd  all  their  sabres  bare, 
Flash'd  as  they  turned  in  air 
Sabring  the  gunners  there, 
Charging  an  army,  while 

All  the  world  wonder'd: 
Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke 
Right  thro'  the  line  they  broke; 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reel'd  from  the  sabre-stroke 

Shatter' d  and  sunder' d. 
Then  they  rode  back,  but  not — 

Not  the  six  hundred. 


Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
[  91  3 


BALLADS 

Cannon  behind  them 

Volley'd  and  thunder'd; 
Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
While  horse  and  hero  fell, 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  thro'  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them, 
Left  of  six  hundred. 

VI 

When  can  their  glory  fade? 
O  the  wild  charge  they  made" 

All  the  world  wonder'd. 
Honour  the  charge  they  made! 
Honour  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  six  hundred! 


THE    CHARGE    OF   THE    HEAVY    BRIGADE 
AT    BALACLAVA 

OCTOBER  25,  1854 

I 
THE  charge  of  the  gallant  three  hundred,  the  Heavy 

Brigade ! 

Down  the  hill,  down  the  hill,  thousands  of  Russians, 
Thousands  of  horsemen,  drew  to  the  valley — and 

stay'd; 

For  Scarlett  and  Scarlett's  three  hundred  were  rid- 
ing by 

When  the  points  of  the  Russian  lances  arose  in  the  sky ; 
[  92] 


THE    CHARGE    OF   THE    HEAVY    BRIGADE 

And  he  call'd  'Left  wheel  into  line ! '  and  they  wheel'd 

and  obey'd. 
Then  he  look'd  at  the  host  that  had  halted  he  knew 

not  why, 
And  he  turn'd  half  round,  and  he  bade  his  trumpeter 

sound 
To  the  charge,  and  he  rode  on  ahead,  as  he  waved  his 

blade 
To  the  gallant  three  hundred  whose  glory  will  never 

die — 

'Follow,'  and  up  the  hill,  up  the  hill,  up  the  hill, 
Follow'd  the  Heavy  Brigade. 

II 

The  trumpet,  the  gallop,  the  charge,  and  the  might 

of  the  fight! 
Thousands  of  horsemen  had  gather'd  there  on  the 

height, 
With  a  wing  push'd  out  to  the  left  and  a  wing  to  the 

right, 
And  who  shall  escape  if  they  close?  but  he  dash'd  up 

alone 

Thro'  the  great  gray  slope  of  men, 
Sway'd  his  sabre,  and  held  his  own 
Like  an  Englishman  there  and  then; 
All  in  a  moment  follow'd  with  force 
Three  that  were  next  in  their  fiery  course, 
Wedged  themselves  in  between  horse  and  horse, 
Fought  for  their  lives  in  the  narrow  gap  they  had  made — 
Four  amid  thousands!  and  up  the  hill,  up  the  hill, 
Gallopt  the  gallant  three  hundred,  the  Heavy  Brigade. 
[  93] 


BALLADS 

III 

Fell  like  a  cannonshot, 
Burst  like  a  thunderbolt, 
Crash' d  like  a  hurricane, 
Broke  thro'  the  mass  from  below, 
Drove  thro'  the  midst  of  the  foe, 
Plunged  up  and  down,  to  and  fro, 
Rode  flashing  blow  upon  blow, 
Brave  Inniskillens  and  Greys 
Whirling  their  sabres  in  circles  of  light! 
And  some  of  us,  all  in  amaze, 
Who  were  held  for  a  while  from  the  fight, 
And  were  only  standing  at  gaze, 
When  the  dark-muffled  Russian  crowd 
Folded  its  wings  from  the  left  and  the  right, 
And  roll'd  them  around  like  a  cloud, — 
O  mad  for  the  charge  and  the  battle  were  we, 
When  our  own  good  redcoats  sank  from  sight, 
Like  drops  of  blood  in  a  dark -gray  sea, 
And  we  turn'd  to  each  other,  whispering,  all  dismay'd, 
'Lost  are  the  gallant  three  hundred  of  Scarlett's 
Brigade!' 

IV 

'Lost  one  and  all'  were  the  words 
Mutter'd  in  our  dismay; 
But  they  rode  like  Victors  and  Lords 
Thro'  the  forest  of  lances  and  swords 
In  the  heart  of  the  Russian  hordes, 
They  rode,  or  they  stood  at  bay — 
Struck  with  the  sword-hand  and  slew, 
[  94] 


THE    REVENGE 

Down  with  the  bridle-hand  drew 

The  foe  from  the  saddle  and  threw 

Underfoot  there  in  the  fray — 

Ranged  like  a  storm  or  stood  like  a  rock 

In  the  wave  of  a  stormy  day ; 

Till  suddenly  shock  upon  shock 

Stagger' d  the  mass  from  without, 

Drove  it  in  wild  disarray, 

For  our  men  gallopt  up  with  a  cheer  and  a  shout, 

And  the  foeman  surged,  and  waver' d,  and  reel'd 

Up  the  hill,  up  the  hill,  up  the  hill,  out  of  the  field, 

And  over  the  brow  and  away. 


Glory  to  each  and  to  all,  and  the  charge  that  they  made ! 
Glory  to  all  the  three  hundred,  and  all  the  Brigade ! 


THE    REVENGE 

A    BALLAD    OF   THE    FLEET 

I 

AT  Flores  in  the  Azores  Sir  Richard  Grenville  lay, 

And  a  pinnace,  like  a  flutter'd  bird,  came  flying  from 
far  away: 

'Spanish  ships  of  war  at  sea!  we  have  sighted  fifty- 
three!' 

Then  sware  Lord  Thomas  Howard:  ''Fore  God  I  am 
no  coward; 

But  I  cannot  meet  them  here,  for  my  ships  are  out  of 
gear, 

[95] 


BALLADS 

And  the  half  my  men  are  sick.  I  must  fly,  but  follow 
quick. 

We  are  six  ships  of  the  line ;  can  we  fight  with  fifty- 
three?' 

II 
Then  spake  Sir  Richard  Grenville: '  I  know  you  are  no 

coward ; 

You  fly  them  for  a  moment  to  fight  with  them  again. 
But  I  've  ninety  men  and  more  that  are  lying  sick  ashore. 
I  should  count  myself  the  coward  if  I  left  them,  my 

Lord  Howard, 
To  these  Inquisition  dogs  and  the  devildoms  of  Spain.' 

in 
So  Lord  Howard  past  away  with  five  ships  of  war  that 

day, 

Till  he  melted  like  a  cloud  in  the  silent  summer  heaven ; 
But  Sir  Richard  bore  in  hand  all  his  sick  men  from 

the  land 

Very  carefully  and  slow, 
Men  of  Bideford  in  Devon, 
And  we  laid  them  on  the  ballast  down  below; 
For  we  brought  them  all  aboard, 
And  they  blest  him  in  their  pain,  that  they  were  not 

left  to  Spain, 
To  the  thumbscrew  and  the  stake,  for  the  glory  of  the 

Lord. 

IV 

He  had  only  a  hundred  seamen  to  work  the  ship  and 
to  fight, 

[  96] 


THE    REVENGE 

And  he  sailed  away  from  Flores  till  the  Spaniard 

came  in  sight, 
With  his  huge  sea-castles  heaving  upon  the  weather 

bow. 

' Shall  we  fight  or  shall  we  fly? 
Good  Sir  Richard,  tell  us  now, 
For  to  fight  is  but  to  die! 
There  '11  be  little  of  us  left  by  the  time  this  sun  be 

set.' 
And  Sir  Richard  said  again:  'We  be  all  good  English 

men. 
Let  us  bang  these  dogs  of  Seville,  the  children  of  the 

devil, 
For  I  never  turn'd  my  back  upon  Don  or  devil  yet.' 

v 

Sir  Richard  spoke  and  he  laugh'd,  and  we  roar'd  a 

hurrah,  and  so 
The  little  Revenge  ran  on  sheer  into  the  heart  of  the 

foe, 
With  her  hundred  fighters  on  deck,  and  her  ninety 

sick  below; 
For  half  of  their  fleet  to  the  right  and  half  to  the  left 

were  seen, 
And  the  little  Revenge  ran  on  thro'  the  long  sea-lane 

between. 

VI 

Thousands  of  their  soldiers  look'd  down  from  their 

decks  and  laugh'd, 
Thousands  of  their  seamen  made  mock  at  the  mad 

little  craft 

[  97  ] 


BALLADS 

Running  on  and  on,  till  delay'd 

By  their  mountain-like  San  Philip  that,  of  fifteen  hun- 
dred tons, 

And  up-shadowing  high  above  us  with  her  yawning 
tiers  of  guns, 

Took  the  breath  from  our  sails,  and  we  stay'd. 

VII 

And  while  now  the  great  San  Philip  hung  above  us 
like  a  cloud 

Whence  the  thunderbolt  will  fall 

Long  and  loud, 

Four  galleons  drew  away 

From  the  Spanish  fleet  that  day, 

And  two  upon  the  larboard  and  two  upon  the  star- 
board lay, 

And  the  battle-thunder  broke  from  them  all. 


VIII 

But  anon  the  great  San  Philip,  she  bethought  herself 

and  went 
Having  that  within  her  womb  that  had  left  her  ill 

content ; 
And  the  rest  they  came  aboard  us,  and  they  fought 

us  hand  to  hand, 
For  a  dozen  times  they  came  with  their  pikes  and 

musqueteers, 
And  a  dozen  times  we  shook  'em  off  as  a  dog  that 

shakes  his  ears 
When  he  leaps  from  the  water  to  the  land. 

[  98] 


THE    REVENGE 

IX 

And  the  sun  went  down,  and  the  stars  came  out  far 

over  the  summer  sea, 
But  never  a  moment  ceased  the  fight  of  the  one  and 

the  fifty-three. 
Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long,  their  high-built 

galleons  came, 

Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long,  with  her  battle- 
thunder  and  flame; 
Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long,  drew  back  with 

her  dead  and  her  shame. 
For  some  were  sunk  and  many  were  shatter' d,  and  so 

could  fight  us  no  more  — 
God  of  battles,  was  ever  a  battle  like  this  in  the 

world  before? 

x 

For  he  said  ' Fight  on!  fight  on!' 

Tho'  his  vessel  was  all  but  a  wreck; 

And  it  chanced  that,  when  half  of  the  short  summer 

night  was  gone, 

With  a  grisly  wound  to  be  drest  he  had  left  the  deck, 
But  a  bullet  struck  him  that  was  dressing  it  suddenly 

dead, 
And  himself  he  was  wounded  again  in  the  side  and 

the  head, 
And  he  said  'Fight  on!  fight  on!' 

XI 

And  the  night  went  down,  and  the  sun  smiled  out  far 
over  the  summer  sea, 

[  99] 


BALLADS 

And  the  Spanish  fleet  with  broken  sides  lay  round  us 

all  in  a  ring; 
But  they  dared  not  touch  us  again,  for  they  fear'd 

that  we  still  could  sting, 
So  they  watch' d  what  the  end  would  be. 
And  we  had  not  fought  them  in  vain, 
But  in  perilous  plight  were  we, 
Seeing  forty  of  our  poor  hundred  were  slain, 
And  half  of  the  rest  of  us  maira'd  for  life 
In  the  crash  of  the  cannonades  and  the  desperate 

strife ; 
And  the  sick  men  down  in  the  hold  were  most  of 

them  stark  and  cold, 
And  the  pikes  were  all  broken  or  bent,  and  the  powder 

was  all  of  it  spent ; 
And  the  masts  and  the  rigging  were  lying  over  the 

side; 

But  Sir  Richard  cried  in  his  English  pride, 
'We  have  fought  such  a  fight  for  a  day  and  a  night 
As  may  never  be  fought  again! 
We  have  won  great  glory,  my  men! 
And  a  day  less  or  more 
At  sea  or  ashore, 
We  die — does  it  matter  when? 
Sink  me  the  ship,  Master  Gunner — sink  her,  split  her 

in  twain! 
Fall  into  the  hands  of  God,  not  into  the  hands  of 

Spain ! ' 

XII 

And  the  gunner  said  '  Ay,  ay,'  but  the  seamen  made 
reply: 

[  100  ] 


THE    REVENGE 

'We  have  children,  we  have  wives, 

And  the  Lord  hath  spared  our  lives. 

We  will  make  the  Spaniard  promise,  if  we  yield,  to 

let  us  go; 

We  shall  live  to  fight  again  and  to  strike  another  blow.' 
And  the  lion  there  lay  dying,  and  they  yielded  to  the 

foe. 

XIII 

And  the  stately  Spanish  men  to  their  flagship  bore 

him  then, 
Where  they  laid  him  by  the  mast,  old  Sir  Richard 

caught  at  last, 
And  they  praised  him  to  his  face  with  their  courtly 

foreign  grace; 

But  he  rose  upon  their  decks,  and  he  cried: 
'I  have  fought  for  Queen  and  Faith  like  a  valiant 

man  and  true; 

I  have  only  done  my  duty  as  a  man  is  bound  to  do: 
With  a  joyful  spirit  I  Sir  Richard  Grenville  die!' 
And  he  fell  upon  their  decks,  and  he  died. 

XIV 

And  they  stared  at  the  dead  that  had  been  so  valiant 

and  true, 

And  had  holden  the  power  and  glory  of  Spain  so  cheap 
That  he  dared  her  with  one  little  ship  and  his  English 

few; 
Was  he  devil  or  man?  He  was  devil  for  aught  they 

knew, 
But  they  sank  his  body  with  honour  down  into  the 

deep, 

[  -JM 


BALLADS 

And  they  mann'd  the  Revenge  with  a  swarthier  alien 
crew, 

And  away  she  sail'd  with  her  loss  and  long'd  for  her 
own: 

When  a  wind  from  the  lands  they  had  ruin'd  awoke 
from  sleep, 

And  the  water  began  to  heave  and  the  weather  to 
moan, 

And  or  ever  that  evening  ended  a  great  gale  blew, 

And  a  wave  like  the  wave  that  is  raised  by  an  earth- 
quake grew, 

Till  it  smote  on  their  hulls  and  their  sails  and  their 
masts  and  their  flags, 

And  the  whole  sea  plunged  and  fell  on  the  shot-shat- 
ter'd  navy  of  Spain, 

And  the  little  Revenge  herself  went  down  by  th« 
island  crags 

To  be  lost  evermore  in  the  main. 


[  102  ] 


ENGLISH    IDYLS 
THE   GARDENER'S   DAUGHTER; 

OR,   THE    PICTURES 

THIS  morning  is  the  morning  of  the  day, 
When  I  and  Eustace  from  the  city  went 
To  see  the  gardener's  daughter;  I  and  he, 
Brothers  in  Art;  a  friendship  so  complete 
Portion' d  in  halves  between  us,  that  we  grew 
The  fable  of  the  city  where  we  dwelt. 

My  Eustace  might  have  sat  for  Hercules; 
So  muscular  he  spread,  so  broad  of  breast, 
lie,  by  some  law  that  holds  in  love,  and  draws 
The  greater  to  the  lesser,  long  desired 
A  certain  miracle  of  symmetry, 
A  miniature  of  loveliness,  all  grace 
Summ'd  up  and  closed  in  little; — Juliet,  she 
So  light  of  foot,  so  light  of  spirit — oh,  she 
To  me  myself,  for  some  three  careless  moons, 
The  summer  pilot  of  an  empty  heart 
Unto  the  shores  of  nothing !  Know  you  not 
Such  touches  are  but  embassies  of  love, 
To  tamper  with  the  feelings,  ere  he  found 
Empire  for  life?  but  Eustace  painted  her, 
And  said  to  me,  she  sitting  with  us  then, 
'When  will^ow  paint  like  this?'  and  I  replied, 
(My  words  were  half  in  earnest,  half  in  jest,) 
'  'T  is  not  your  work,  but  Love's.  Love,  unperceived, 
A  more  ideal  Artist  he  than  all, 
I  103  ] 


IDYLS 

Came,  drew  your  pencil  from  you,  made  those  eyes 
Darker  than  darkest  pansies,  and  that  hair 
More  black  than  ashbuds  in  the  front  of  March.' 
And  Juliet  answer' d  laughing,  'Go  and  see 
The  gardener's  daughter:  trust  me,  after  that, 
You  scarce  can  fail  to  match  his  masterpiece.' 
And  up  we  rose,  and  on  the  spur  we  went. 

Not  wholly  in  the  busy  world,  nor  quite 
Beyond  it,  blooms  the  garden  that  I  love. 
News  from  the  humming  city  comes  to  it 
In  sound  of  funeral  or  of  marriage  bells; 
And,  sitting  muffled  in  dark  leaves,  you  hear 
The  windy  clanging  of  the  minster  clock ; 
Although  between  it  and  the  garden  lies 
A  league  of  grass,  wash'd  by  a  slow  broad  stream, 
That,  stirr'd  with  languid  pulses  of  the  oar, 
Waves  all  its  lazy  lilies,  and  creeps  on, 
Barge-laden,  to  three  arches  of  a  bridge 
Crown' d  with  the  minster- towers. 

The  fields  between 

Are  dewy-fresh,  browsed  by  deep-udder'd  kine, 
And  all  about  the  large  lime  feathers  low, 
The  lime  a  summer  home  of  murmurous  wings. 

In  that  still  place  she,  hoarded  in  herself, 
Grew,  seldom  seen;  not  less  among  us  lived 
Her  fame  from  lip  to  lip.  Who  had  not  heard 
Of  Rose,  the  gardener's  daughter?  Where  was  he, 
So  blunt  in  memory,  so  old  at  heart, 
At  such  a  distance  from  his  youth  in  grief, 
That,  having  seen,  forgot?  The  common  mouth, 
C  104] 


THE   GARDENERS   DAUGHTER 

So  gross  to  express  delight,  in  praise  of  her 

Grew  oratory.  Such  a  lord  is  Love, 

And  Beauty  such  a  mistress  of  the  world. 

And  if  I  said  that  Fancy,  led  by  Love, 
Would  play  with  flying  forms  and  images, 
Yet  this  is  also  true,  that,  long  before 
I  look'd  upon  her,  when  I  heard  her  name 
My  heart  was  like  a  prophet  to  my  heart, 
And  told  me  I  should  love.  A  crowd  of  hopes, 
That  sought  to  sow  themselves  like  winged  seeds, 
Born  out  of  everything  I  heard  and  saw, 
Flutter'd  about  my  senses  and  my  soul; 
And  vague  desires,  like  fitful  blasts  of  balm 
To  one  that  travels  quickly,  made  the  air 
Of  Life  delicious,  and  all  kinds  of  thought, 
That  verged  upon  them,  sweeter  than  the  dream 
Dream'd  by  a  happy  man,  when  the  dark  East, 
Unseen,  is  brightening  to  his  bridal  morn. 

And  sure  this  orbit  of  the  memory  folds 
For  ever  in  itself  the  day  we  went 
To  see  her.  All  the  land  in  flowery  squares, 
Beneath  a  broad  and  equal-blowing  wind, 
Smelt  of  the  coming  summer,  as  one  large  cloud 
Drew  downward :  but  all  else  of  heaven  was  pure 
Up  to  the  Sun,  and  May  from  verge  to  verge, 
And  May  with  me  from  head  to  heel.  And  now, 
As  tho'  't  were  yesterday,  as  tho'  it  were 
The  hour  just  flown,  that  morn  with  all  its  sound, 
(For  those  old  Mays  had  thrice  the  life  of  these,) 
Rings  in  mine  ears.  The  steer  forgot  to  graze, 
[  105  ] 


IDYLS 

And,  where  the  hedge-row  cuts  the  pathway,  stood, 

Leaning  his  horns  into  the  neighbour  field, 

And  lowing  to  his  fellows.  From  the  woods 

Came  voices  of  the  well-contented  doves. 

The  lark  could  scarce  get  out  his  notes  for  joy, 

But  shook  his  song  together  as  he  near'd 

His  happy  home,  the  ground.  To  left  and  right, 

The  cuckoo  told  his  name  to  all  the  hills; 

The  mellow  ouzel  fluted  in  the  elm; 

The  redcap  whistled;  and  the  nightingale 

Sang  loud,  as  tho'  he  were  the  bird  of  day. 

And  Eustace  turn'd,  and  smiling  said  to  me, 
'Hear  how  the  bushes  echo!  by  my  life, 
These  birds  have  joyful  thoughts.  Think  you  they  sing 
Like  poets,  from  the  vanity  of  song? 
Or  have  they  any  sense  of  why  they  sing? 
And  would  they  praise  the  heavens  for  what  they 

have?' 

And  I  made  answer,  'Were  there  nothing  else 
For  which  to  praise  the  heavens  but  only  love, 
That  only  love  were  cause  enough  for  praise.' 

Lightly  he  laugh'd,  as  one  that  read  my  thought, 
And  on  we  went;  but  ere  an  hour  had  pass'd, 
We  reach'd  a  meadow  slanting  to  the  North; 
Down  which  a  well-worn  pathway  courted  us 
To  one  green  wicket  in  a  privet  hedge; 
This,  yielding,  gave  into  a  grassy  walk 
Thro'  crowded  lilac-ambush  trimly  pruned; 
And  one  warm  gust,  full-fed  with  perfume,  blew 
Beyond  us,  as  we  enter'd  in  the  cool. 
[  106  ] 


THE    GARDENERS    DAUGHTER 

The  garden  stretches  southward.  In  the  midst 
A  cedar  spread  his  dark -green  layers  of  shade. 
The  garden-glasses  glanced,  and  momently 
The  twinkling  laurel  scatter'd  silver  lights. 

'Eustace/  I  said,  'this  wonder  keeps  the  house.' 
He  nodded,  but  a  moment  afterwards 
He  cried,  'Look!  look!'  Before  he  ceased  I  turn'd, 
And,  ere  a  star  can  wink,  beheld  her  there. 

For  up  the  porch  there  grew  an  Eastern  rose, 
That,  flowering  high,  the  last  night's  gale  had  caught, 
And  blown  across  the  walk.  One  arm  aloft — 
Gown'd  in  pure  white,  that  fitted  to  the  shape  — 
Holding  the  bush,  to  fix  it  back,  she  stood, 
A  single  stream  of  all  her  soft  brown  hair 
Pour'd  on  one  side:  the  shadow  of  the  flowers 
Stole  all  the  golden  gloss,  and,  wavering 
Lovingly  lower,  trembled  on  her  waist — 
Ah,  happy  shade  —  and  still  went  wavering  down, 
But,  ere  it  touch'd  a  foot,  that  might  have  danced 
The  greensward  into  greener  circles,  dipt, 
And  mix'd  with  shadows  of  the  common  ground! 
But  the  full  day  dwelt  on  her  brows,  and  sunn'd 
Her  violet  eyes,  and  all  her  Hebe  bloom, 
And  doubled  his  own  warmth  against  her  lips, 
And  on  the  bounteous  wave  of  such  a  breast 
As  never  pencil  drew.  Half  light,  half  shade, 
She  stood,  a  sight  to  make  an  old  man  young. 

So  rapt,  we  near'd  the  house;  but  she,  a  Rose 
In  roses,  mingled  with  her  fragrant  toil, 
[  107] 


IDYLS 

Nor  heard  us  come,  nor  from  her  tendance  turn'd 
Into  the  world  without;  till  close  at  hand, 
And  almost  ere  I  knew  mine  own  intent, 
This  murmur  broke  the  stillness  of  that  air 
Which  brooded  round  about  her: 

'  Ah,  one  rose, 

One  rose,- but  one,  by  those  fair  fingers  cull'd, 
Were  worth  a  hundred  kisses  press' d  on  lips 
Less  exquisite  than  thine.' 

She  look'd:  but  all 

Suffused  with  blushes — neither  self-possess'd 
Nor  startled,  but  betwixt  this  mood  and  that, 
Divided  in  a  graceful  quiet — paused, 
And  dropt  the  branch  she  held,  and  turning,  wound 
Her  looser  hair  in  braid,  and  stirr'd  her  lips 
For  some  sweet  answer,  tho'  no  answer  came, 
Nor  yet  refused  the  rose,  but  granted  it, 
And  moved  away,  and  left  me,  statue-like, 
In  act  to  render  thanks. 

I,  that  whole  day, 

Saw  her  no  more,  altho'  I  linger'd  there 
Till  every  daisy  slept,  and  Love's  white  star 
Beam'd  thro'  the  thicken'd  cedar  in  the  dusk. 

So  home  we  went,  and  all  the  livelong  way 
With  solemn  gibe  did  Eustace  banter  me. 
'Now,'  said  he,  'will  you  climb  the  top  of  Art. 
You  cannot  fail  but  work  in  hues  to  dim 
The  Titianic  Flora.  Will  you  match 
My  Juliet?  you,  not  you, — the  Master,  Love, 
A  more  ideal  Artist  he  than  all.' 

[  108  ] 


THE    GARDENERS    DAUGHTER 

So  home  I  went,  but  could  not  sleep  for  joy, 
Reading  her  perfect  features  in  the  gloom, 
Kissing  the  rose  she  gave  me  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  shaping  faithful  record  of  the  glance 
That  graced  the  giving — such  a  noise  of  life 
Swarm'd  in  the  golden  present,  such  a  voice 
Call'd  to  me  from  the  years  to  come,  and  such 
A  length  of  bright  horizon  rimm'd  the  dark. 
And  all  that  night  I  heard  the  watchman  peal 
The  sliding  season:  all  that  night  I  heard 
The  heavy  clocks  knolling  the  drowsy  hours. 
The  drowsy  hours,  dispensers  of  all  good, 
O'er  the  mute  city  stole  with  folded  wings, 
Distilling  odours  on  me  as  they  went 
To  greet  their  fairer  sisters  of  the  East. 

Love  at  first  sight,  first-born,  and  heir  to  all, 
Made  this  night  thus.  Henceforward  squall  nor  storm 
Could  keep  me  from  that  Eden  where  she  dwelt. 
Light  pretexts  drew  me;  sometimes  a  Dutch  love 
For  tulips :  then  for  roses,  moss  or  musk, 
To  grace  my  city  rooms;  or  fruits  and  cream 
Served  in  the  weeping  elm;  and  more  and  more 
A  word  could  bring  the  colour  to  my  cheek; 
A  thought  would  fill  my  eyes  with  happy  dew; 
Love  trebled  life  within  me,  and  with  each 
The  year  increased. 

The  daughters  of  the  year, 
One  after  one,  thro'  that  still  garden  pass'd; 
Each  garlanded  with  her  peculiar  flower 
Danced  into  light,  and  died  into  the  shade; 

[  109] 


IDYLS 

And  each  in  passing  touch'd  with  some  new  grace 
Or  seem'd  to  touch  her,  so  that  day  by  day, 
Like  one  that  never  can  be  wholly  known, 
Her  beauty  grew;  till  Autumn  brought  an  hour 
For  Eustace,  when  I  heard  his  deep  'I  will,' 
Breathed,  like  the  covenant  of  a  God,  to  hold 
From  thence  thro'  all  the  worlds:  but  I  rose  up 
Full  of  his  bliss,  and  following  her  dark  eyes 
Felt  earth  as  air  beneath  me,  till  I  reach'd 
The  wicket-gate,  and  found  her  standing  there. 

There  sat  we  down  upon  a  garden  mound, 
Two  mutually  enfolded;  Love,  the  third, 
Between  us,  in  the  circle  of  his  arms 
Enwound  us  both;  and  over  many  a  range 
Of  waning  lime  the  gray  cathedral  towers, 
Across  a  hazy  glimmer  of  the  west, 
Reveal'd  their  shining  windows:  from  them  clash'd 
The  bells;  we  listen' d;  with  the  time  we  play'd, 
We  spoke  of  other  things ;  we  coursed  about 
The  subject  most  at  heart,  more  near  and  near, 
Like  doves  about  a  dovecote,  wheeling  round 
The  central  wish,  until  we  settled  there. 

Then,  in  that  time  and  place,  I  spoke  to  her, 
Requiring,  tho'  I  knew  it  was  mine  own, 
Yet  for  the  pleasure  that  I  took  to  hear, 
Requiring  at  her  hand  the  greatest  gift, 
A  woman's  heart,  the  heart  of  her  I  loved; 
And  in  that  time  and  place  she  answer'd  me, 
And  in  the  compass  of  three  little  words, 
More  musical  than  ever  came  in  one, 
[  HO  ] 


THE    GARDENERS    DAUGHTER 

The  silver  fragments  of  a  broken  voice, 
Made  me  most  happy,  faltering,  'I  am  thine.' 

Shall  I  cease  here?  Is  this  enough  to  say 
That  my  desire,  like  all  strongest  hopes, 
By  its  own  energy  fulfill'd  itself, 
Merged  in  completion?  Would  you  learn  at  full 
How  passion  rose  thro'  circumstantial  grades 
Beyond  all  grades  develop'd?  and  indeed 
I  had  not  staid  so  long  to  tell  you  all, 
But  while  I  mused  came  Memory  with  sad  eyes, 
Holding  the  folded  annals  of  my  youth; 
And  while  I  mused,  Love  with  knit  brows  went  by, 
And  with  a  flying  finger  swept  my  lips, 
And  spake,  '  Be  wise :  not  easily  forgiven 
Are  those  who,  setting  wide  the  doors  that  bar 
The  secret  bridal  chambers  of  the  heart, 
Let  in  the  day.'  Here,  then,  my  words  have  end. 

Yet  might  I  tell  of  meetings,  of  farewells — 
Of  that  which  came  between,  more  sweet  than  each, 
In  whispers,  like  the  whispers  of  the  leaves 
That  tremble  round  a  nightingale — in  sighs 
Which  perfect  Joy,  perplex'd  for  utterance, 
Stole  from  her  sister  Sorrow.  Might  I  not  tell 
Of  difference,  reconcilement,  pledges  given, 
And  vows,  where  there  was  never  need  of  vows, 
And  kisses,  where  the  heart  on  one  wild  leap 
Hung  tranced  from  all  pulsation,  as  above 
The  heavens  between  their  fairy  fleeces  pale 
Sow'd  all  their  mystic  gulfs  with  fleeting  stars; 
Or  while  the  balmy  glooming,  crescent-lit, 
[  111  ] 


IDYLS 

Spread  the  light  haze  along  the  river-shores, 
And  in  the  hollows;  or  as  once  we  met 
Unheedful,  tho'  beneath  a  whispering  rain 
Night  slid  down  one  long  stream  of  sighing  wind, 
And  in  her  bosom  bore  the  baby,  Sleep. 

But  this  whole  hour  your  eyes  have  been  intent 
On  that  veil'd  picture — veil'd,  for  what  it  holds 
May  not  be  dwelt  on  by  the  common  day. 
This  prelude  has  prepared  thee.  Raise  thy  soul; 
Make  thine  heart  ready  with  thine  eyes:  the  time 
Is  come  to  raise  the  veil. 

Behold  her  there, 

As  I  beheld  her  ere  she  knew  my  heart, 
My  first,  last  love;  the  idol  of  my  youth, 
The  darling  of  my  manhood,  and,  alas ! 
Now  the  most  blessed  memory  of  mine  age. 


DORA 

WITH  farmer  Allan  at  the  farm  abode 

William  and  Dora.  William  was  his  son, 

And  she  his  niece.  He  often  look'd  at  them, 

And  often  thought,  '  I  '11  make  them  man  and  wife.' 

Now  Dora  felt  her  uncle's  will  in  all, 

And  yearn'd  toward  William ;  but  the  youth,  because 

He  had  been  always  with  her  in  the  house, 

Thought  not  of  Dora. 

Then  there  came  a  day 

When  Allan  call'd  his  son,  and  said,  'My  son: 
I  married  late,  but  I  would  wish  to  see 
[  "2  ] 


DORA 

My  grandchild  on  my  knees  before  I  die: 
And  I  have  set  my  heart  upon  a  match. 
Now  therefore  look  to  Dora;  she  is  well 
To  look  to;  thrifty  too  beyond  her  age. 
She  is  my  brother's  daughter:  he  and  I 
Had  once  hard  words,  and  parted,  and  he  died 
In  foreign  lands;  but  for  his  sake  I  bred 
His  daughter  Dora:  take  her  for  your  wife; 
For  I  have  wish'd  this  marriage,  night  and  day, 
For  many  years.'  But  William  answer'd  short: 
'I  cannot  marry  Dora;  by  my  life, 
I  will  not  marry  Dora.'  Then  the  old  man 
Was  wroth,  and  doubled  up  his  hands,  and  said: 
'  You  will  not,  boy !  you  dare  to  answer  thus ! 
But  in  my  time  a  father's  word  was  law, 
And  so  it  shall  be  now  for  me.  -Look  to  it; 
Consider,  William:  take  a  month  to  think, 
And  let  me  have  an  answer  to  my  wish; 
Or,  by  the  Lord  that  made  me,  you  shall  pack, 
And  never  more  darken  my  doors  again.' 
But  William  answer'd  madly;  bit  his  lips, 
And  broke  away.  The  more  he  look'd  at  her 
The  less  he  liked  her;  and  his  ways  were  harsh; 
But  Dora  bore  them  meekly.  Then  before 
The  month  was  out  he  left  his  father's  house, 
And  hired  himself  to  work  within  the  fields; 
And  half  in  love,  half  spite,  he  woo'd  and  wed 
A  labourer's  daughter,  Mary  Morrison. 

Then,  when  the  bells  were  ringing,  Allan  call'd 
His  niece  and  said:  'My  girl,  I  love  you  well; 
But  if  you  speak  with  him  that  was  my  son, 


IDYLS 

Or  change  a  word  with  her  he  calls  his  wife, 
My  home  is  none  of  yours.  My  will  is  law.' 
And  Dora  promised,  being  meek.  She  thought, 
'It  cannot  be:  my  uncle's  mind  will  change!' 

And  days  went  on,  and  there  was  born  a  boy 
To  William;  then  distresses  came  on  him; 
And  day  by  day  he  pass'd  his  father's  gate, 
Heart-broken,  and  his  father  help'd  him  not. 
But  Dora  stored  what  little  she  could  save, 
And  sent  it  them  by  stealth,  nor  did  they  know 
Who  sent  it;  till  at  last  a  fever  seized 
On  William,  and  in  harvest  time  he  died. 

Then  Dora  went  to  Mary.  Mary  sat 
And  look'd  with  tears  upon  her  boy,  and  thought 
Hard  things  of  Dora.  Dora  came  and  said  : 

'I  have  obey'd  my  uncle  until  now, 
And  I  have  sinn'd,  for  it  was  all  thro'  me 
This  evil  came  on  William  at  the  first. 
But,  Mary,  for  the  sake  of  him  that 's  gone, 
And  for  your  sake,  the  woman  that  he  chose, 
And  for  this  orphan,  I  am  come  to  you: 
You  know  there  has  not  been  for  these  five  years 
So  full  a  harvest:  let  me  take  the  boy, 
And  I  will  set  him  in  my  uncle's  eye 
Among  the  wheat;  that  when  his  heart  is  glad 
Of  the  full  harvest,  he  may  see  the  boy, 
And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him  that 's  gone.' 

And  Dora  took  the  child,  and  went  her  way 
Across  the  wheat,  and  sat  upon  a  mound 
[  114] 


DORA 

That  was  unsown,  where  many  poppies  grew. 
Far  off  the  farmer  came  into  the  field 
And  spied  her  not ;  for  none  of  all  his  men 
Dare  tell  him  Dora  waited  with  the  child; 
And  Dora  would  have  risen  and  gone  to  him, 
But  her  heart  fail'd  her;  and  the  reapers  reap'd, 
And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was  dark. 

But  when  the  morrow  came,  she  rose  and  took 
The  child  once  more,  and  sat  upon  the  mound; 
And  made  a  little  wreath  of  all  the  flowers 
That  grew  about,  and  tied  it  round  his  hat 
To  make  him  pleasing  in  her  uncle's  eye. 
Then  when  the  farmer  pass'd  into  the  field 
He  spied  her,  and  he  left  his  men  at  work, 
And  came  and  said:  'Where  were  you  yesterday? 
Whose  child  is  that?  What  are  you  doing  here?' 
So  Dora  cast  her  eyes  upon  the  ground, 
And  answer'd  softly,  'This  is  William's  child!' 
'And  did  I  not,'  said  Allan,  'did  I  not 
Forbid  you,  Dora?'  Dora  said  again: 
'Do  with  me  as  you  will,  but  take  the  child, 
And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him  that 's  gone!' 
And  Allan  said,  'I  see  it  is  a  trick 
Got  up  betwixt  you  and  the  woman  there. 
I  must  be  taught  my  duty,  and  by  you! 
You  knew  my  word  was  law,  and  yet  you  dared 
To  slight  it.  Well — for  I  will  take  the  boy; 
But  go  you  hence,  and  never  see  me  more.' 

So  saying,  he  took  the  boy,  that  cried  aloud 
And  struggled  hard.  The  wreath  of  flowers  fell 


IDYLS 

At  Dora's  feet.  She  bowed  upon  her  hands, 
And  the  boy's  cry  came  to  her  from  the  field, 
More  and  more  distant.  She  bow'd  down  her  head, 
Remembering  the  day  when  first  she  came, 
And  all  the  things  that  had  been.  She  bow'd  down 
And  wept  in  secret;  and  the  reapers  reap'd, 
And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was  dark. 

Then  Dora  went  to  Mary's  house,  and  stood 
Upon  the  threshold.  Mary  saw  the  boy 
Was  not  with  Dora.  She  broke  out  in  praise 
To  God,  that  help'd  her  in  her  widowhood. 
And  Dora  said,  'My  uncle  took  the  boy; 
But,  Mary,  let  me  live  and  work  with  you: 
He  says  that  he  will  never  see  me  more.' 
Then  answer' d  Mary,  'This  shall  never  be, 
That  thou  shouldst  take  my  trouble  on  thyself: 
And,  now  I  think,  he  shall  not  have  the  boy, 
For  he  will  teach  him  hardness,  and  to  slight 
His  mother;  therefore  thou  and  I  will  go, 
And  I  will  have  my  boy,  and  bring  him  home; 
And  I  will  beg  of  him  to  take  thee  back : 
But  if  he  will  not  take  thee  back  again, 
Then  thou  and  I  will  live  within  one  house, 
And  work  for  William's  child,  until  he  grows 
Of  age  to  help  us." 

So  the  women  kiss'd 

Each  other,  and  set  out,  and  reach' d  the  farm. 
The  door  was  off  the  latch :  they  peep'd,  and  saw 
The  boy  set  up  betwixt  his  grandsire's  knees, 
Who  thrust  him  in  the  hollows  of  his  arm, 
And  clapt  him  on  the  hands  and  on  the  cheeks, 
[  116] 


DORA 

Like  one  that  loved  him :  and  the  lad  stretch'd  out 
And  babbled  for  the  golden  seal,  that  hung 
From  Allan's  watch,  and  sparkled  by  the  fire. 
Then  they  came  in:  but  when  the  boy  beheld 
His  mother,  he  cried  out  to  come  to  her: 
And  Allan  set  him  down,  and  Mary  said: 

'O  Father! — if  you  let  me  call  you  so — 
I  never  came  a-begging  for  myself, 
Or  William,  or  this  child;  but  now  I  come 
For  Dora:  take  her  back;  she  loves  you  well. 

0  Sir,  when  William  died,  he  died  at  peace 
With  all  men;  for  I  ask'd  him,  and  he  said, 
He  could  not  ever  rue  his  marrying  me — 

1  had  been  a  patient  wife:  but,  Sir,  he  said 
That  he  was  wrong  to  cross  his  father  thus: 

"God  bless  him!"  he  said,  "and  may  he  never  know 
The  troubles  I  have  gone  thro' ! "  Then  he  turn'd 
His  face  and  pass'd  —  unhappy  that  I  am! 
But  now,  Sir,  let  me  have  my  boy,  for  you 
Will  make  him  hard,  and  he  will  learn  to  slight 
His  father's  memory;  and  take  Dora  back, 
And  let  all  this  be  as  it  was  before.' 

So  Mary  said,  and  Dora  hid  her  face 
By  Mary.  There  was  silence  in  the  room; 
And  all  at  once  the  old  man  burst  in  sobs: — 

'I  have  been  to  blame — to  blame.  I  have  kill'd  my 

son! 

I  have  kill'd  him — but  I  loved  him — my  dear  son. 
May  God  forgive  me!  —  I  have  been  to  blame. 


IDYLS 

Kiss  me,  my  children.' 

Then  they  clung  about 

The  old  man's  neck,  and  kiss'd  him  many  times. 
And  all  the  man  was  broken  with  remorse; 
And  all  his  love  came  back  a  hundred-fold; 
And  for  three  hours  he  sobb'd  o'er  William's  child 
Thinking  of  William. 

So  those  four  abode 

Within  one  house  together;  and  as  years 
Went  forward,  Mary  took  another  mate; 
But  Dora  lived  unmarried  till  her  death. 


[  H8] 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

(ENONE 

THERE  lies  a  vale  in  Ida,  lovelier 

Than  all  the  valleys  of  Ionian  hills. 

The  swimming  vapour  slopes  athwart  the  glen, 

Puts  forth  an  arm,  and  creeps  from  pine  to  pine, 

And  loiters,  slowly  drawn.  On  either  hand 

The  lawns  and  meadow-ledges  midway  down 

Hang  rich  in  flowers,  and  far  below  them  roars 

The  long  brook  falling  thro'  the  clov'n  ravine 

In  cataract  after  cataract  to  the  sea. 

Behind  the  valley  topmost  Gargarus 

Stands  up  and  takes  the  morning:  but  in  front 

The  gorges,  opening  wide  apart,  reveal 

Troas  and  Ilion's  column'd  citadel, 

The  crown  of  Troas. 

Hither  came  at  noon 
Mournful  CEnone,  wandering  forlorn 
Of  Paris,  once  her  playmate  on  the  hills. 
Her  cheek  had  lost  the  rose,  and  round  her  neck 
Floated  her  hair  or  seem'd  to  float  in  rest. 
She,  leaning  on  a  fragment  twined  with  vine, 
Sang  to  the  stillness,  till  the  mountain-shade 
Sloped  downward  to  her  seat  from  the  upper  cliff. 

'O  mother  Ida,  many-fountain' d  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
For  now  the  noonday  quiet  holds  the  hill: 
The  grasshopper  is  silent  in  the  grass: 

[  H9  ] 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

The  lizard,  with  his  shadow  on  the  stone, 
Rests  like  a  shadow,  and  the  winds  are  dead. 
The  purple  flower  droops:  the  golden  bee 
Is  lily-cradled:  I  alone  awake. 
My  eyes  are  full  of  tears,  my  heart  of  love, 
My  heart  is  breaking,  and  my  eyes  are  dim, 
And  I  am  all  aweary  of  my  life. 

fO  mother  Ida,  many-fountain'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Hear  me,  O  Earth,  hear  me,  O  Hills,  O  Caves 
That  house  the  cold  crown' d  snake !  O  mountain  brooks, 
I  am  the  daughter  of  a  River-God, 
Hear  me,  for  I  will  speak,  and  build  up  all 
My  sorrow  with  my  song,  as  yonder  walls 
Rose  slowly  to  a  music  slowly  breathed, 
A  cloud  that  gather'd  shape:  for  it  may  be 
That,  while  I  speak  of  it,  a  little  while 
My  heart  may  wander  from  its  deeper  woe. 

'O  mother  Ida,  many-fountain'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
I  waited  underneath  the  dawning  hills, 
Aloft  the  mountain  lawn  was  dewy-dark, 
And  dewy-d*rk  aloft  the  mountain  pine: 
Beautiful  Paris,  evil-hearted  Paris, 
Leading  a  jet-black  goat  white-horn'd,  white-hooved, 
Came  up  from  reedy  Simois  all  alone. 

'O  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Far-off  the  torrent  call'd  me  from  the  cleft: 
Far  up  the  solitary  morning  smote 
[  120  ] 


CENONE 

The  streaks  of  virgin  snow.  With  down-dropt  eyes 
I  sat  alone :  white-breasted  like  a  star 
Fronting  the  dawn  he  moved;  a  leopard  skin 
Droop'd  from  his  shoulder,  but  his  sunny  hair 
Cluster'd  about  his  temples  like  a  God's: 
And  his  cheek  brighten'd  as  the  foam-bow  brightens 
When  the  wind  blows  the  foam,  and  all  my  heart 
Went  forth  to  embrace  him  coming  ere  he  came. 

'Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
He  smiled,  and  opening  out  his  milk-white  palm 
Disclosed  a  fruit  of  pure  Hesperian  gold, 
That  smelt  ambrosially,  and  while  I  look'd 
And  listen'd,  the  full-flowing  river  of  speech 
Came  down  upon  my  heart. 

'"My  own  CEnone, 

Beautiful-brow'd  CEnone,  my  own  soul, 
Behold  this  fruit,  whose  gleaming  rind  ingrav'n 
'For  the  most  fair,'  would  seem  to  award  it  thine, 
As  lovelier  than  whatever  Oread  haunt 
The  knolls  of  Ida,  loveliest  in  all  grace 
Of  movement,  and  the  charm  of  married  brows." 

'Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
He  prest  the  blossom  of  his  lips  to  mine, 
And  added  "This  was  cast  upon  the  board, 
When  all  the  full-faced  presence  of  the  Gods 
Ranged  in  the  halls  of  Peleus ;  whereupon 
Rose  feud,  with  question  unto  whom  'twere  due: 
But  light-foot  Iris  brought  it  yester-eve, 
Delivering,  that  to  me,  by  common  voice 
Elected  umpire,  Here  comes  to-day, 
[  121  ] 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

Pallas  and  Aphrodite,  claiming  each 
This  meed  of  fairest.  Thou,  within  the  cave 
Behind  yon  whispering  tuft  of  oldest  pine, 
Mayst  well  behold  them  unbeheld,  unheard 
Hear  all,  and  see  thy  Paris  judge  of  Gods." 

'Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
It  was  the  deep  midnoon:  one  silvery  cloud 
Had  lost  his  way  between  the  piney  sides 
Of  this  long  glen.  Then  to  the  bower  they  came, 
Naked  they  came  to  that  smooth-swarded  bower, 
And  at  their  feet  the  crocus  brake  like  fire, 
Violet,  amaracus,  and  asphodel, 
Lotos  and  lilies:  and  a  wind  arose, 
And  overhead  the  wandering  ivy  and  vine, 
This  way  and  that,  in  many  a  wild  festoon 
Ran  riot,  garlanding  the  gnarled  boughs 
With  bunch  and  berry  and  flower  thro'  and  thro'. 

<O  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
On  the  tree-tops  a  crested  peacock  lit, 
And  o'er  him  flow'd  a  golden  cloud,  and  lean'd 
Upon  him,  slowly  dropping  fragrant  dew. 
Then  first  I  heard  the  voice  of  her,  to  whom 
Coming  thro'  Heaven,  like  a  light  that  grows 
Larger  and  clearer,  with  one  mind  the  Gods 
Rise  up  for  reverence.  She  to  Paris  made 
Proffer  of  royal  power,  ample  rule 
Unquestion'd,  overflowing  revenue 
Wherewith  to  embellish  state,  "from  many  a  vale 
And  river-sunder'd  champaign  clothed  with  corn, 

[  122  ] 


CENONE 

Or  labour' d  mine  undrainable  of  ore. 
Honour,"  she  said,  "and  homage,  tax  and  toll, 
From  many  an  island  town  and  haven  large, 
Mast-throng' d  beneath  her  shadowing  citadel 
In  glassy  bays  among  her  tallest  towers." 

*O  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Still  she  spake  on  and  still  she  spake  of  power, 
"  Which  in  all  action  is  the  end  of  all ; 
Power  fitted  to  the  season;  wisdom-bred 
And  throned  of  wisdom — from  all  neighbour  crowns 
Alliance  and  allegiance,  till  thy  hand 
Fail  from  the  sceptre-staff.  Such  boon  from  me, 
From  me,  Heaven's  Queen,  Paris,  to  thee  king-born, 
A  shepherd  all  thy  life  but  yet  king-born, 
Should  come  most  welcome,  seeing  men,  in  power 
Only,  are  likest  gods,  who  have  attain'd 
Rest  in  a  happy  place  and  quiet  seats 
Above  the  thunder,  with  undying  bliss 
In  .knowledge  of  their  own  supremacy." 

'Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
She  ceased,  and  Paris  held  the  costly  fruit 
Out  at  arm's-length,  so  much  the  thought  of  power 
Flatter'd  his  spirit;  but  Pallas  where  she  stood 
Somewhat  apart,  her  clear  and  bared  limbs 
O'erthwarted  with  the  brazen-headed  spear 
Upon  her  pearly  shoulder  leaning  cold, 
The  while,  above,  her  full  and  earnest  eye 
Over  her  snow-cold  breast  and  angry  cheek 
Kept  watch,  waiting  decision,  made  reply. 

[  123] 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

"'  Self-reverence,  self-knowledge,  self-control, 
These  three  alone  lead  life  to  sovereign  power. 
Yet  not  for  power  (power  of  herself 
Would  come  uncall'd  for)  but  to  live  by  law, 
Acting  the  law  we  live  by  without  fear; 
And,  because  right  is  right,  to  follow  right 
Were  wisdom  in  the  scorn  of  consequence." 

'Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Again  she  said:  "I  woo  thee  not  with  gifts. 
Sequel  of  guerdon  could  not  alter  me 
To  fairer.  Judge  thou  me  by  what  I  am, 
So  shalt  thou  find  me  fairest. 

Yet,  indeed, 

If  gazing  on  divinity  disrobed 
Thy  mortal  eyes  are  frail  to  judge  of  fair, 
Unbias'd  by  self-profit,  oh!  rest  thee  sure, 
That  I  shall  love  thee  well  and  cleave  to  thee, 
So  that  my  vigour,  wedded  to  thy  blood, 
Shall  strike  within  thy  pulses,  like  a  God's, 
To  push  thee  forward  thro'  a  life  of  shocks, 
Dangers,  and  deeds,  until  endurance  grow 
Sinew'd  with  action,  and  the  full-grown  will, 
Circled  thro'  all  experiences,  pure  law, 
Commeasure  perfect  freedom." 

'Here  she  ceas'd, 

And  Paris  ponder'd,  and  I  cried,  "O  Paris, 
Give  it  to  Pallas!"  but  he  heard  me  not, 
Or  hearing  would  not  hear  me,  woe  is  me ! 

'O  mother  Ida,  many-fountain' d  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
[  124] 


CENONE 

Idalian  Aphrodite  beautiful, 

Fresh  as  the  foam,  new-bathed  in  Paphian  wells, 
With  rosy  slender  fingers  backward  drew 
From  her  warm  brows  and  bosom  her  deep  hair 
Ambrosial,  golden  round  her  lucid  throat 
And  shoulder:  from  the  violets  her  light  foot 
Shone  rosy-white,  and  o'er  her  rounded  form 
Between  the  shadows  of  the  vine-bunches 
Floated  the  glowing  sunlights,  as  she  moved. 

'Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
She  with  a  subtle  smile  in  her  mild  eyes, 
The  herald  of  her  triumph,  drawing  nigh 
Half-whisper'd  in  his  ear,  "I  promise  thee 
The  fairest  and  most  loving  wife  in  Greece." 
She  spoke  and  laugh'd:  I  shut  my  sight  for  fear: 
But  when  I  look'd,  Paris  had  raised  his  arm, 
And  I  beheld  great  Here's  angry  eyes, 
As  she  withdrew  into  the  golden  cloud, 
And  I  was  left  alone  within  the  bower; 
And  from  that  time  to  this  I  am  alone, 
And  I  shall  be  alone  until  I  die. 

'Yet,  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Fairest — why  fairest  wife?  am  I  not  fair? 
My  love  hath  told  me  so  a  thousand  times. 
Methinks  I  must  be  fair,  for  yesterday, 
When  I  past  by,  a  wild  and  wanton  pard, 
Eyed  like  the  evening  star,  with  playful  tail 
Crouch'd  fawning  in  the  weed.  Most  loving  is  she? 
Ah  me,  my  mountain  shepherd,  that  my  arms 
Were  wound  about  thee,  and  my  hot  lips  prest 
[  125  ] 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

Close,  close  to  thine  in  that  quick -falling  dew 
Of  fruitful  kisses,  thick  as  Autumn  rains 
Flash  in  the  pools  of  whirling  Simois. 

<O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
They  came,  they  cut  away  my  tallest  pines, 
My  tall  dark  pines,  that  plumed  the  craggy  ledge 
High  over  the  blue  gorge,  and  all  between 
The  snowy  peak  and  snow-white  cataract 
Foster' d  the  callow  eaglet — from  beneath 
Whose  thick  mysterious  boughs  in  the  dark  morn 
The  panther's  roar  came  muffled,  while  J  sat 
Low  in  the  valley.  Never,  never  more 
Shall  lone  CEnone  see  the  morning  mist 
Sweep  thro'  them;  never  see  them  overlaid 
With  narrow  moon-lit  slips  of  silver  cloud, 
Between  the  loud  stream  and  the  trembling  stars. 

'O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
I  wish  that  somewhere  in  the  ruin'd  folds, 
Among  the  fragments  tumbled  from  the  glens, 
Or  the  dry  thickets,  I  could  meet  with  her 
The  Abominable,  that  uninvited  came 
Into  the  fair  Pelei'an  banquet-hall, 
And  cast  the  golden  fruit  upon  the  board, 
And  bred  this  change;  that  I  might  speak  my  mind, 
And  tell  her  to  her  face  how  much  I  hate 
Her  presence,  hated  both  of  Gods  and  men. 

'O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
Hath  he  not  sworn  his  love  a  thousand  times, 
In  this  green  valley,  under  this  green  hill, 
C  126  ] 


CENONE 

Ev'n  on  this  hand,  and  sitting  on  this  stone? 
Seal'd  it  with  kisses?  water'd  it  with  tears? 
O  happy  tears,  and  how  unlike  to  these! 
O  happy  Heaven,  how  canst  thou  see  my  face? 
O  happy  earth,  how  canst  thou  bear  my  weight? 

0  death,  death,  death,  thou  ever-floating  cloud, 
There  are  enough  unhappy  on  this  earth; 

Pass  by  the  happy  souls,  that  love  to  live: 

1  pray  thee,  pass  before  my  light  of  life, 
And  shadow  all  my  soul,  that  I  may  die. 
Thou  weighest  heavy  on  the  heart  within, 
Weigh  heavy  on  my  eyelids:  let  me  die. 

(O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
I  will  not  die  alone,  for  fiery  thoughts 
Do  shape  themselves  within  me,  more  and  more, 
Whereof  I  catch  the  issue,  as  I  hear 
Dead  sounds  at  night  come  from  the  inmost  hills, 
Like  footsteps  upon  wool.  I  dimly  see 
My  far-off  doubtful  purpose,  as  a  mother 
Conjectures  of  the  features  of  her  child 
Ere  it  is  born:  her  child!  —  a  shudder  comes 
Across  me :  never  child  be  born  of  me, 
Unblest,  to  vex  me  with  his  father's  eyes! 

'O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
Hear  me,  O  earth.  I  will  not  die  alone, 
Lest  their  shrill  happy  laughter  come  to  me 
Walking  the  cold  and  starless  road  of  Death 
Uncomforted,  leaving  my  ancient  love 
With  the  Greek  woman.  I  will  rise  and  go 
Down  into  Troy,  and  ere  the  stars  come  forth 
[  127  ] 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

Talk  with  the  wild  Cassandra,  for  she  says 
A  fire  dances  before  her,  and  a  sound 
Rings  ever  in  her  ears  of  armed  men. 
What  this  may  be  I  know  not,  but  I  know 
That,  wheresoe'er  I  am  by  night  and  day, 
All  earth  and  air  seem  only  burning  fire.' 


ULYSSES 

IT  little  profits  that  an  idle  king, 
By  this  still  hearth,  among  these  barren  crags, 
Match'd  with  an  aged  wife,  I  mete  and  dole 
Unequal  laws  unto  a  savage  race, 
That  hoard,  and  sleep,  and  feed,  and  know  not  me. 
I  cannot  rest  from  travel:  I  will  drink 
Life  to  the  lees:  all  times  I  have  enjoy'd 
Greatly,  have  suffer'd  greatly,  both  with  those 
That  loved  me,  and  alone ;  on  shore,  and  when 
Thro'  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Hyades 
Vext  the  dim  sea:  I  am  become  a  name; 
For  always  roaming  with  a  hungry  heart 
Much  have  I  seen  and  known :  cities  of  men, 
And  manners,  climates,  councils,  governments, 
Myself  not  least,  but  honour'd  of  them  all ; 
And  drunk  delight  of  battle  with  my  peers, 
Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy  Troy. 
I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met; 
Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  wherethro* 
Gleams  that  untravell'd  world,  whose  margin  fades 
For  ever  and  for  ever  when  I  move. 
How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end, 
[  128  ] 


ULYSSES 

To  rust  unburnish'd,  not  to  shine  in  use! 

As  tho'  to  breathe  were  life.  Life  piled  on  life 

Were  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me 

Little  remains:  but  every  hour  is  saved 

From  that  eternal  silence,  something  more, 

A  bringer  of  new  things ;  and  vile  it  were 

For  some  three  suns  to  store  and  hoard  myself, 

And  this  gray  spirit  yearning  in  desire 

To  follow  knowledge  like  a  sinking  star, 

Beyond  the  utmost  bound  of  human  thought. 

This  is  my  son,  mine  own  Telemachus, 
To  whom  I  leave  the  sceptre  and  the  isle — 
Well-loved  of  me,  discerning  to  fulfil 
This  labour,  by  slow  prudence  to  make  mild 
A  rugged  people,  and  thro'  soft  degrees 
Subdue  them  to  the  useful  and  the  good. 
Most  blameless  is  he,  centred  in  the  sphere 
Of  common  duties,  decent  not  to  fail 
In  offices  of  tenderness,  and  pay 
Meet  adoration  to  my  household  gods, 
When  I  am  gone.  He  works  his  work,  I  mine. 

There  lies  the  port ;  the  vessel  puffs  her  sail  : 
There  gloom  the  dark  broad  seas.  My  mariners, 
Souls  that  have  toil'd,  and  wrought,  and  thought  with 

me — 

That  ever  with  a  frolic  welcome  took 
The  thunder  and  the  sunshine,  and  opposed 
Free  hearts,  free  foreheads — you  and  I  are  old; 
Old  age  hath  yet  his  honour  and  his  toil ; 
Death  closes  all :  but  something  ere  the  end, 
[  129  ] 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be  done, 

Not  unbecoming  men  that  strove  with  Gods. 

The  lights  begin  to  twinkle  from  the  rocks: 

The  long  day  wanes :  the  slow  moon  climbs :  the  deep 

Moans  round  with  many  voices.  Come,  my  friends, 

'T  is  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 

Push  off  and  sitting  well  in  order  smite 

The  sounding  furrows;  for  my  purpose  holds 

To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths 

Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die. 

It  may  be  the  gulfs  will  wash  us  down: 

It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  Isles, 

And  see  the  great  Achilles,  whom  we  knew. 

Tho'  much  is  taken,  much  abides;  and  tho' 

We  are  not  now  that  strength  which  in  old  days 

Moved  earth  and  heaven ;  that  which  we  are,  we  are ; 

One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts, 

Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but  strong  in  will 

To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield. 


TITHONUS 

THE  woods  decay,  the  woods  decay  and  fall, 
The  vapours  weep  their  burthen  to  the  ground, 
Man  comes  and  tills  the  field  and  lies  beneath, 
And  after  many  a  summer  dies  the  swan. 
Me  only  cruel  immortality 
Consumes:  I  wither  slowly  in  thine  arms, 
Here  at  the  quiet  limit  of  the  world, 
A  white-hair'd  shadow  roaming  like  a  dream 
[  130  ] 


TITHONUS 

The  ever-silent  spaces  of  the  East, 
Far-folded  mists,  and  gleaming  halls  of  morn. 

Alas!  for  this  gray  shadow,  once  a  man — 
So  glorious  in  his  beauty  and  thy  choice, 
^Vho  madest  him  thy  chosen,  that  he  seem'd 
To  his  great  heart  none  other  than  a  God! 
I  ask'd  thee,  'Give  me  immortality.' 
Then  didst  thou  grant  mine  asking  with  a  smile, 
Like  wealthy  men  who  care  not  how  they  give. 
But  thy  strong  Hours  indignant  work'd  their  wills, 
And  beat  me  down  and  marr'd  and  wasted  me, 
And  tho'  they  could  not  end  me,  left  me  maim'd 
To  dwell  in  presence  of  immortal  youth, 
Immortal  age  beside  immortal  youth, 
And  all  I  was,  in  ashes.  Can  thy  love, 
Thy  beauty,  make  amends,  tho'  even  now, 
Close  over  us,  the  silver  star,  thy  guide, 
Shines  in  those  tremulous  eyes  that  fill  with  tears 
To  hear  me?  Let  me  go:  take  back  thy  gift: 
Why  should  a  man  desire  in  any  way 
To  vary  from  the  kindly  race  of  men, 
Or  pass  beyond  the  goal  of  ordinance 
Where  all  should  pause,  as  is  most  meet  for  all? 

A  soft  air  fans  the  cloud  apart;  there  comes 
A  glimpse  of  that  dark  world  where  I  was  born 
Once  more  the  old  mysterious  glimmer  steals 
From  thy  pure  brows,  and  from  thy  shoulders  pure. 
And  bosom  beating  with  a  heart  renew'd. 
Thy  cheek  begins  to  redden  thro'  the  gloom, 
Thy  sweet  eyes  brighten  slowly  close  to  mine, 
[  131  ] 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

Ere  yet  they  blind  the  stars,  and  the  wild  team 
Which  love  thee,  yearning  for  thy  yoke,  arise, 
And  shake  the  darkness  from  their  loosen'd  manes, 
And  beat  the  twilight  into  flakes  of  fire. 

Lo!  ever  thus  thou  growest  beautiful 
In  silence,  then  before  thine  answer  given 
Departest,  and  thy  tears  are  on  my  cheek. 

Why  wilt  thou  ever  scare  me  with  thy  tears, 
And  make  me  tremble  lest  a  saying  learnt, 
In  days  far-off,  on  that  dark  earth,  be  true? 
'The  Gods  themselves  cannot  recall  their  gifts.' 

Ay  me !  ay  me !  with  what  another  heart 
In  days  far-off,  and  with  what  other  eyes 
I  used  to  watch — if  I  be  he  that  watch'd — 
The  lucid  outline  forming  round  thee;  saw 
The  dim  curls  kindle  into  sunny  rings; 
Changed  with  thy  mystic  change,  and  felt  my  blood 
Glow  with  the  glow  that  slowly  crimson'd  all 
Thy  presence  and  thy  portals,  while  I  lay, 
Mouth,  forehead,  eyelids,  growing  dewy- warm 
With  kisses  balmier  than  half-opening  buds 
Of  April,  and  could  hear  the  lips  that  kiss'd 
Whispering  I  knew  not  what  of  wild  and  sweet, 
Like  that  strange  song  I  heard  Apollo  sing, 
While  Ilion  like  a  mist  rose  into  towers. 

Yet  hold  me  not  for  ever  in  thine  East: 
How  can  my  nature  longer  mix  with  thine? 
Coldly  thy  rosy  shadows  bathe  me,  cold 
[  132  ] 


LUCRETIUS 

Are  all  thy  lights,  and  cold  my  wrinkled  feet 
Upon  thy  glimmering  thresholds,  when  the  steam 
Floats  up  from  those  dim  fields  about  the  homes 
Of  happy  men  that  have  the  power  to  die, 
And  grassy  barrows  of  the  happier  dead. 
Release  me,  and  restore  me  to  the  ground; 
Thou  seest  all  things,  thou  wilt  see  my  grave: 
Thou  wilt  renew  thy  beauty  morn  by  morn; 
I  earth  in  earth  forget  these  empty  courts, 
And  thee  returning  on  thy  silver  wheels. 


LUCRETIUS 

LUCILIA,  wedded  to  Lucretius,  found 
Her  master  cold ;  for  when  the  morning  flush 
Of  passion  and  the  first  embrace  had  died 
Between  them,  tho'  he  lov'd  her  none  the  less, 
Yet  often  when  the  woman  heard  his  foot 
Return  from  pacings  in  the  field,  and  ran 
To  greet  him  with  a  kiss,  the  master  took 
Small  notice,  or  austerely,  for — his  mind 
Half  buried  in  some  weightier  argument, 
Or  fancy-borne  perhaps  upon  the  rise 
And  long  roll  of  the  Hexameter — he  past 
To  turn  and  ponder  those  three  hundred  scrolls 
Left  by  the  Teacher,  whom  he  held  divine. 
She  brook'd  it  not;  but  wrathful,  petulant, 
Dreaming  some  rival,  sought  and  found  a  witch 
Who  brew'd  the  philtre  which  had  power,  they  said, 
To  lead  an  errant  passion  home  again. 
And  this,  at  times,  she  mingled  with  his  drink, 
[  133  ] 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

And  this  destroy'd  him ;  for  the  wicked  broth 

Confused  the  chemic  labour  of  the  blood, 

And  tickling  the  brute  brain  within  the  man's 

Made  havock  among  those  tender  cells,  and  check'd 

His  power  to  shape:  he  loathed  himself;  and  once 

After  a  tempest  woke  upon  a  morn 

That  mock'd  him  with  returning  calm,  and  cried: 

' Storm  in  the  night!  for  thrice  I  heard  the  rain 
Rushing;  and  once  the  flash  of  a  thunderbolt — 
Meth ought  I  never  saw  so  fierce  a  fork — 
Struck  out  the  streaming  mountain-side,  and  show'd 
A  riotous  confluence  of  watercourses 
Blanching  and  billowing  in  a  hollow  of  it, 
Where  all  but  yester-eve  was  dusty-dry. 

'  Storm,  and  what  dreams,  ye  holy  Gods,  what  dreams ! 
For  thrice  I  waken' d  after  dreams.  Perchance 
We  do  but  recollect  the  dreams  that  come 
Just  ere  the  waking:  terrible!  for  it  seem'd 
A  void  was  made  in  Nature ;  all  her  bonds 
Crack'd;  and  I  saw  the  flaring  atom-streams 
And  torrents  of  her  myriad  universe, 
Ruining  along  the  illimitable  inane, 
Fly  on  to  clash  together  again,  and  make 
Another  and  another  frame  of  things 
For  ever:  that  was  mine,  my  dream,  I  knew  it — 
Of  and  belonging  to  me,  as  the  dog 
With  inward  yelp  and  restless  forefoot  plies 
His  function  of  the  woodland:  but  the  next! 
I  thought  that  all  the  blood  by  Sylla  shed 
Came  driving  rainlike  down  again  on  earth, 
[  134] 


LUCRETIUS 

And  where  it  dash'd  the  reddening  meadow,  sprang 

No  dragon  warriors  from  Cadmean  teeth, 

For  these  I  thought  my  dream  would  show  to  me, 

But  girls,  Hetairai,  curious  in  their  art, 

Hired  animalisms,  vile  as  those  that  made 

The  mulberry-faced  Dictator's  orgies  worse 

Than  aught  they  fable  of  the  quiet  Gods. 

And  hands  they  mixt,  and  yell'd  and  round  me  drove 

In  narrowing  circles  till  I  yell'd  again 

Half-suffocated,  and  sprang  up,  and  saw  — 

Was  it  the  first  beam  of  my  latest  day? 

'Then,  then,  from  utter  gloom  stood  out  the  breasts, 
The  breasts  of  Helen,  and  hoveringly  a  sword 
Now  over  and  now  under,  now  direct, 
Pointed  itself  to  pierce,  but  sank  down  shamed 
At  all  that  beauty ;  and  as  I  stared,  a  fire, 
The  fire  that  left  a  roofless  Ilion, 
Shot  out  of  them,  and  scorch'd  me  that  I  woke. 

'Is  this  thy  vengeance,  holy  Venus,  thine, 
Because  I  would  not  one  of  thine  own  doves, 
Not  ev'n  a  rose,  were  offer'd  to  thee?  thine, 
Forgetful  how  my  rich  prooemion  makes 
Thy  glory  fly  along  the  Italian  field, 
In  lays  that  will  outlast  thy  Deity? 

'Deity?  nay,  thy  worshippers.  My  tongue 
Trips,  or  I  speak  profanely.  Which  of  these 
Angers  thee  most,  or  angers  thee  at  all? 
Not  if  thou  be'st  of  those  who,  far  aloof 
From  envy,  hate  and  pity,  and  spite  and  scorn, 
[  135  ] 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

Live  the  great  life  which  all  our  greatest  fain 
Would  follow,  centr'd  in  eternal  calm. 

'Nay,  if  thou  canst,  O  Goddess,  like  ourselves 
Touch,  and  be  touch'd,  then  would  I  cry  to  thee 
To  kiss  thy  Mavors,  roll  thy  tender  arms 
Round  him,  and  keep  him  from  the  lust  of  blood 
That  makes  a  steaming  slaughter-house  of  Rome. 

'Ay,  but  I  meant  not  thee;  I  meant  not  her, 
Whom  all  the  pines  of  Ida  shook  to  see 
Slide  from  that  quiet  heaven  of  hers,  and  tempt 
The  Trojan,  while  his  neat-herds  were  abroad; 
Nor  her  that  o'er  her  wounded  hunter  wept 
Her  Deity  false  in  human-amorous  tears; 
Nor  whom  her  beardless  apple-arbiter 
Decided  fairest.  Rather,  O  ye  Gods, 
Poet-like,  as  the  great  Sicilian  called 
Calliope  to  grace  his  golden  verse  — 
Ay,  and  this  Kypris  also  —  did  I  take 
That  popular  name  of  thine  to  shadow  forth 
The  all-generating  powers  and  genial  heat 
Of  Nature,  when  she  strikes  thro'  the  thick  blood 
Of  cattle,  and  light  is  large,  and  lambs  are  glad 
Nosing  the  mother's  udder,  and  the  bird 
Makes  his  heart  voice  amid  the  blaze  of  flowers: 
Which  things  appear  the  work  of  mighty  Gods. 

'The  Gods!  and  if  I  go  my  work  is  left 
Unfinish'd — if  I  go.  The  Gods,  who  haunt 
The  lucid  interspace  of  world  and  world, 
Where  never  creeps  a  cloud,  or  moves  a  wind, 
C  136] 


LUCRETIUS 

Nor  ever  falls  the  least  white  star  of  snow, 
Nor  ever  lowest  roll  of  thunder  moans, 
Nor  sound  of  human  sorrow  mounts  to  mar 
Their  sacred  everlasting  calm!  and  such, 
Not  all  so  fine,  nor  so  divine  a  calm, 
Not  such,  nor  all  unlike  it,  man  may  gain 
Letting  his  own  life  go.  The  Gods,  the  Gods! 
If  all  be  atoms,  how  then  should  the  Gods 
'  Being  atomic  not  be  dissoluble, 
Not  follow  the  great  law?  My  master  held 
That  Gods  there  are,  for  all  men  so  believe. 
I  prest  my  footsteps  into  his,  and  meant 
Surely  to  lead  my  Memmius  in  a  train 
Of  flowery  clauses  onward  to  the  proof 
That  Gods  there  are,  and  deathless.  Meant?  I  meant? 
I  have  forgotten  what  I  meant:  my  mind 
Stumbles,  and  all  my  faculties  are  lamed. 

'  Look  where  another  of  our  Gods,  the  Sun, 
Apollo,  Delius,  or  of  older  use 
All-seeing  Hyperion — what  you  will — 
Has  mounted  yonder;  since  he  never  sware, 
Except  his  wrath  were  wreak'd  on  wretched  man, 
That  he  would  only  shine  among  the  dead 
Hereafter;  tales!  for  never  yet  on  earth 
Could  dead  flesh  creep,  or  bits  of  roasting  ox 
Moan  round  the  spit — nor  knows  he  what  he  sees; 
King  of  the  East  altho'  he  seem,  and  girt 
With  song  and  flame  and  fragrance,  slowly  lifts 
His  golden  feet  on  those  empurpled  stairs 
That  climb  into  the  windy  halls  of  heaven: 
And  here  he  glances  on  an  eye  new-born, 
[  137  ] 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

And  gets  for  greeting  but  a  wail  of  pain ; 

And  here  he  stays  upon  a  freezing  orb 

That  fain  would  gaze  upon  him  to  the  last; 

And  here  upon  a  yellow  eyelid  fall'n 

And  closed  by  those  who  mourn  a  friend  in  vain, 

Not  thankful  that  his  troubles  are  no  more. 

And  me,  altho'  his  fire  is  on  my  face 

Blinding,  he  sees  not,  nor  at  all  can  tell 

Whether  I  mean  this  day  to  end  myself, 

Or  lend  an  ear  to  Plato  where  he  says, 

That  men  like  soldiers  may  not  quit  the  post 

Allotted  by  the  Gods :  but  he  that  holds 

The  Gods  are  careless,  wherefore  need  he  care 

Greatly  for  them,  nor  rather  plunge  at  once, 

Being  troubled,  wholly  out  of  sight,  and  sink 

Past  earthquake — ay,  and  gout  and  stone,  that  break 

Body  toward  death,  and  palsy,  death-in-life, 

And  wretched  age — and  worst  disease  of  all, 

These  prodigies  of  myriad  nakednesses, 

And  twisted  shapes  of  lust,  unspeakable, 

Abominable,  strangers  at  my  hearth 

Not  welcome,  harpies  miring  every  dish, 

The  phantom  husks  of  something  foully  done, 

And  fleeting  thro*  the  boundless  universe, 

And  blasting  the  long  quiet  of  my  breast 

With  animal  heat  and  dire  insanity? 

'How  should  the  mind,  except  it  loved  them,  clasp 
These  idols  to  herself?  or  do  they  fly 
Now  thinner,  and  now  thicker,  like  the  flakes 
In  a  fall  of  snow,  and  so  press  in,  perforce 
Of  multitude,  as  crowds  that  in  an  hour 
[  138  ] 


LUCRETIUS 

Of  civic  tumult  jam  the  doors,  and  bear 

The  keepers  down,  and  throng,  their  rags  and  they 

The  basest,  far  into  that  council-hall 

Where  sit  the  best  and  stateliest  of  the  land? 

'Can  I  not  fling  this  horror  off  me  again, 
Seeing  with  how  great  ease  Nature  can  smile, 
Balmier  and  nobler  from  her  bath  of  storm, 
At  random  ravage?  and  how  easily 
The  mountain  there  has  cast  his  cloudy  slough, 
Now  towering  o'er  him  in  serenest  air, 
A  mountain  o'er  a  mountain, — ay,  and  within 
All  hollow  as  the  hopes  and  fears  of  men? 

'But  who  was  he,  that  in  the  garden  snared 
Picus  and  Faunus,  rustic  Gods?  a  tale 
To  laugh  at — more  to  laugh  at  in  myself — 
For  look!  what  is  it?  there?  yon  arbutus 
Totters;  a  noiseless  riot  underneath 
Strikes  through  the  wood,  sets  all  the  tops  quivering — 
The  mountain  quickens  into  Nymph  and  Faun; 
And  here  an  Oread — how  the  sun  delights 
To  glance  and  shift  about  her  slippery  sides, 
And  rosy  knees  and  supple  roundedness, 
And  budded  bosom-peaks — who  this  way  runs 
Before  the  rest — A  satyr,  a  satyr,  see, 
Follows;  but  him  I  proved  impossible; 
Twy-natured  is  no  nature:  yet  he  draws 
Nearer  and  nearer,  and  I  scan  him  now 
Beastlier  than  any  phantom  of  his  kind 
That  ever  butted  his  rough  brother-brute 
For  lust  or  lusty  blood  or  provender: 
L  139  ] 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

I  hate,  abhor,  spit,  sicken  at  him;  and  she 

Loathes  him  as  well;  such  a  precipitate  heel, 

Fledged  as  it  were  with  Mercury's  ankle-wing, 

Whirls  her  to  me :  but  will  she  fling  herself, 

Shameless  upon  me?  Catch  her,  goat-foot:  nay, 

Hide,  hide  them,  million-myrtled  wilderness, 

And  cavern-shadowing  laurels,  hide !  do  I  wish  — 

What? — that  the  bush  were  leafless?  or  to  whelm 

All  of  them  in  one  massacre?  O  ye  Gods, 

I  know  you  careless,  yet,  behold,  to  you 

From  childly  wont  and  ancient  use  I  call  — 

I  thought  I  lived  securely  as  yourselves — 

No  lewdness,  narrowing  envy,  monkey-spite, 

No  madness  of  ambition,  avarice,  none : 

No  larger  feast  than  under  plane  or  pine 

With  neighbours  laid  along  the  grass,  to  take 

Only  such  cups  as  left  us  friendly- warm, 

Affirming  each  his  own  philosophy — 

Nothing  to  mar  the  sober  majesties 

Of  settled,  sweet,  Epicurean  life. 

But  now  it  seems  some  unseen  monster  lays 

His  vast  and  filthy  hands  upon  my  will, 

Wrenching  it  backward  into  his;  and  spoils 

My  bliss  in  being;  and  it  was  not  great; 

For  save  when  shutting  reasons  up  in  rhythm, 

Or  Heliconian  honey  in  living  words, 

To  make  a  truth  less  harsh,  I  often  grew 

Tired  of  so  much  within  our  little  life, 

Or  of  so  little  in  our  little  life — 

Poor  little  life  that  toddles  half  an  hour 

Crown'd  with  a  flower  or  two,  and  there  an  end — 

[  140  ] 


LUCRETIUS 

And  since  the  nobler  pleasure  seems  to  fade, 
Why  should  I,  beastlike  as  I  find  myself, 
Not  manlike  end  myself? — our  privilege — 
What  beast  has  heart  to  do  it?  And  what  man, 
What  Roman  would  be  dragg'd  in  triumph  thus? 
Not  I ;  not  he,  who  bears  one  name  with  her 
Whose  death-blow  struck  the  dateless  doom  of  kings, 
WThen,  brooking  not  the  Tarquin  in  her  veins, 
She  made  her  blood  in  sight  of  Collatine 
And  all  his  peers,  flushing  the  guiltless  air, 
Spout  from  the  maiden  fountain  in  her  heart. 
And  from  it  sprang  the  Commonwealth,  which  breaks 
As  I  am  breaking  now! 

'And  therefore  now 

Let  her,  that  is  the  womb  and  tomb  of  all, 
Great  Nature,  take,  and  forcing  far  apart 
Those  blind  beginnings  that  have  made  me  man, 
Dash  them  anew  together  at  her  will 
Thro'  all  her  cycles — into  man  once  more, 
Or  beast  or  bird  or  fish,  or  opulent  flower: 
But  till  this  cosmic  order  everywhere 
Shatter' d  into  one  earthquake  in  one  day 
Cracks  all  to  pieces, — and  that  hour  perhaps 
Is  not  so  far  when  momentary  man 
Shall  seem  no  more  a  something  to  himself, 
But  he,  his  hopes  and  hates,  his  homes  and  fanes, 
And  even  his  bones  long  laid  within  the  grave, 
The  very  sides  of  the  grave  itself  shall  pass, 
Vanishing,  atom  and  void,  atom  and  void, 
Into  the  unseen  for  ever,  —  till  that  hour, 
My  golden  work  in  which  I  told  a  truth 

[  141  ] 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

That  stays  the  rolling  Ixionian  wheel, 

And  numbs  the  Fury's  ringlet-snake,  and  plucks 

The  mortal  soul  from  out  immortal  hell, 

Shall  stand:  ay,  surely:  then  it  falls  at  last 

And  perishes  as  I  must;  for  O  Thou, 

Passionless  bride,  divine  Tranquillity, 

Yearn'd  after  by  the  wisest  of  the  wise, 

Who  fail  to  find  thee,  being  as  thou  art 

Without  one  pleasure  and  without  one  pain, 

Howbeit  I  know  thou  surely  must  be  mine 

Or  soon  or  late,  yet  out  of  season,  thus 

I  woo  thee  roughly,  for  thou  carest  not 

How  roughly  men  may  woo  thee  so  they  win  — 

Thus — thus:  the  soul  flies  out  and  dies  in  the  air.' 

With  that  he  drove  the  knife  into  his  side: 
She  heard  him  raging,  heard  him  fall ;  ran  in, 
Beat  breast,  tore  hair,  cried  out  upon  herself 
As  having  fail'd  in  duty  to  him,  shriek'd 
That  she  but  meant  to  win  him  back,  fell  on  him, 
Clasp'd,  kiss'd  him,  wail'd:  he  answer' d,  'Care  not 

thou! 
Thy  duty?  What  is  duty?  Fare  thee  well!' 


ST.    AGNES'    EVE 

DEEP  on  the  convent-roof  the  snows 
Are  sparkling  to  the  moon: 

My  breath  to  heaven  like  vapour  goes: 
May  my  soul  follow  soon! 

The  shadows  of  the  convent-towers 
Slant  down  the  snowy  sward, 
[  142  ] 


ST.  AGNES    EVE 

Still  creeping  with  the  creeping  hours 

That  lead  me  to  my  Lord: 
Make  Thou  my  spirit  pure  and  clear 

As  are  the  frosty  skies, 
Or  this  first  snowdrop  of  the  year 

That  in  my  bosom  lies. 

As  these  white  robes  are  soil'd  and  dark, 

To  yonder  shining  ground; 
As  this  pale  taper's  earthly  spark, 

To  yonder  argent  round; 
So  shows  my  soul  before  the  Lamb, 

My  spirit  before  Thee ; 
So  in  mine  earthly  house  I  am, 

To  that  I  hope  to  be. 
Break  up  the  heavens,  O  Lord!  and  far, 

Thro'  all  yon  starlight  keen, 
Draw  me,  thy  bride,  a  glittering  star, 

In  raiment  white  and  clean. 

He  lifts  me  to  the  golden  doors; 

The  flashes  come  and  go; 
All  heaven  bursts  her  starry  floors, 

And  strows  her  lights  below, 
And  deepens  on  and  up!  the  gates 

Roll  back,  and  far  within 
For  me  the  Heavenly  Bridegroom  waits, 

To  make  me  pure  of  sin. 
The  sabbaths  of  Eternity, 

One  sabbath  deep  and  wide — 
A  light  upon  the  shining  sea — 

The  Bridegroom  with  his  bride! 
[  143  ] 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

SIR   GALAHAD 

MY  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men, 

My  tough  lance  thrusteth  sure, 
My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten, 

Because  my  heart  is  pure. 
The  shattering  trumpet  shrill  eth  high, 

The  hard  brands  shiver  on  the  steel, 
The  splinter'd  spear-shafts  crack  and  fly, 

The  horse  and  rider  reel: 
They  reel,  they  roll  in  clanging  lists, 

And  when  the  tide  of  combat  stands, 
Perfume  and  flowers  fall  in  showers, 

That  lightly  rain  from  ladies'  hands. 

How  sweet  are  looks  that  ladies  bend 

On  whom  their  favours  fall! 
For  them  I  battle  till  the  end, 

To  save  from  shame  and  thrall: 
But  all  my  heart  is  drawn  above, 

My  knees  are  bow'd  in  crypt  and  shrine: 
I  never  felt  the  kiss  of  love, 

Nor  maiden's  hand  in  mine. 
More  bounteous  aspects  on  me  beam, 

Me  mightier  transports  move  and  thrill; 
So  keep  I  fair  thro'  faith  and  prayer 

A  virgin  heart  in  work  and  will. 

When  down  the  stormy  crescent  goes, 

A  light  before  me  swims, 
Between  dark  stems  the  forest  glows, 

I  hear  a  noise  of  hymns : 
[  144] 


SIR   GALAHAD 

Then  by  some  secret  shrine  I  ride; 

I  hear  a  voice  but  none  are  there; 
The  stalls  are  void,  the  doors  are  wide, 

The  tapers  burning  fair. 
Fair  gleams  the  snowy  altar-cloth, 

The  silver  vessels  sparkle  clean, 
The  shrill  bell  rings,  the  censer  swings, 

And  solemn  chaunts  resound  between. 

Sometimes  on  lonely  mountain-meres 

I  find  a  magic  bark; 
I  leap  on  board:  no  helmsman  steers: 

I  float  till  all  is  dark. 
A  gentle  sound,  an  awful  light! 

Three  angels  bear  the  holy  Grail: 
With  folded  feet,  in  stoles  of  white, 

On  sleeping  wings  they  sail. 
Ah,  blessed  vision!  blood  of  God! 

My  spirit  beats  her  mortal  bars, 
As  down  dark  tides  the  glory  slides, 

And  star-like  mingles  with  the  stars. 

When  on  my  goodly  charger  borne 

Thro'  dreaming  towns  I  go, 
The  cock  crows  ere  the  Christmas  morn, 

The  streets  are  dumb  with  snow. 
The  tempest  crackles  on  the  leads, 

And,  ringing,  springs  from  brand  and  mail; 
But  o'er  the  dark  a  glory  spreads, 
.     And  gilds  the  driving  hail. 
I  leave  the  plain,  I  climb  the  height; 

No  branchy  thicket  shelter  yields ; 
[  145  ] 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

But  blessed  forms  in  whistling  storms 
Fly  o'er  waste  fens  and  windy  fields. 

A  maiden  knight — to  me  is  given 

Such  hope,  I  know  not  fear; 
I  yearn  to  breathe  the  airs  of  heaven 

That  often  meet  me  here. 
I  muse  on  joy  that  will  not  cease, 

Pure  spaces  clothed  in  living  beams, 
Pure  lilies  of  eternal  peace, 

Whose  odours  haunt  my  dreams; 
And,  stricken  by  an  angel's  hand, 

This  mortal  armour  that  I  wear, 
This  weight  and  size,  this  heart  and  eyes, 

Are  touch'd,  are  turn'd  to  finest  air. 

The  clouds  are  broken  in  the  sky, 

And  thro'  the  mountain-walls 
A  rolling  organ-harmony 

Swells  up,  and  shakes  and  falls. 
Then  move  the  trees,  the  copses  nod, 

Wings  flutter,  voices  hover  clear: 
'O  just  and  faithful  knight  of  God! 

Ride  on!  the  prize  is  near.' 
So  pass  I  hostel,  hall,  and  grange; 

By  bridge  and  ford,  by  park  and  pale, 
All-arm'd  I  ride,  whate'er  betide, 

Until  I  find  the  holy  Grail. 


[  146  ] 


NORTHERN    FARMER 

NORTHERN    FARMER 
OLD   STYLE 

I 

WHEER  'asta  bean  saw  long  and  mea  liggin'  'ere  aloan? 
Noorse  ?  thourt  nowt  o'  a  noorse :  whoy,  Doctor 's  abean 

an'  agoan: 

Says  that  I  moant  'a  naw  moor  aale :  but  I  beant  a  fool : 
Git  ma  my  aale,  fur  I  beant  a-gawin'  to  break  my  rule. 

II 

Doctors,  they  knaws  nowt,  fur  a  says  what 's  nawways 

true: 

Naw  soort  o'  koind  o'  use  to  saay  the  things  that  a  do. 
I  've  'ed  my  point  o'  aale  ivry  noight  sin'  I  bean  'ere. 
An'  I  've  'ed  my  quart  ivry  market-noight  for  foorty 

year. 

in 

Parson  's  a  bean  loikewoise,  an'  a  sittin'  'ere  o'  my  bed. 
'The  amoighty  's  a  taakin  o'  you1  to  'issen,  my  friend,' 

a  said, 
An'  a  towd  ma  my  sins,  an's  toithe  were  due,  an'  I 

gied  it  in  hond; 
I  done  moy  duty  boy  'um,  as  I  'a  done  boy  the  lond. 

IV 

Larn'd  a  ma'  bea.  I  reckons  I  'annot  sa  mooch  to  larn. 
But  a  cast  oop,  thot  a  did,  'bout  Bessy  Marris's  barne. 

1  ou  as  in  hour. 

[  H7] 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

Thaw  a  knaws  I  hallus  voated  wi'  Squoire  an'  choorch 

an'  staate, 
An'  i'  the  woost  o'  toimes  I  wur  niver  agin  the  raate. 

v 
An'  I  hallus  coom'd  to  's  chooch  afoor  moy  Sally  wur 

dead, 
An'  'card  'um  a  bummin'  awaay  loike  a  buzzard-clock1 

ower  my  'ead, 
An'  I  niver  knaw'd  whot  a  mean'd  but  I  thowt  a  'ad 

summut  to  saay, 
An'  I  thowt  a  said  whot  a  owt  to  'a  said  an'  I  coom'd 

awaay. 

VI 

Bessy  Marris's  barne!  tha  knaws  she  laaid  it  to  mea. 
Mowt  a  bean,  mayhap,  for  she  wur  a  bad  un,  shea. 
'Siver,  I  kep  'um,  I  kep  'um,  ma  lass,  tha  mun  under- 

stond ; 
I  done  moy  duty  boy  'um  as  I  'a  done  boy  the  lond. 

VII 

But  Parson  a  cooms  an'  a  goas,  an*  a  says  it  easy  an' 

freea 
'The  amoighty  's  a  taakin  o'  you  to  'issen,  my  friend,' 

says  'ea. 
I  weant  saay  men  be  loiars,  thaw  summun  said  it  in 

'aaste  : 
But  'e  reads  wonn  sarmin  a  weeak,  an'  I  'a  stubb'd 

Thurnaby  waaste. 

1  Cockchafer. 

[  148] 


NORTHERN    FARMER 

VIII 

D'  ya  moind  the  waaste,  my  lass?  naw,  naw,  tha  was 

not  born  then; 

Theer  wur  a  boggle  in  it,  I  often  'card  'um  mysen; 
Moast  loike  a  butter-bump,1  fur  I  'card  'um  about  an' 

about, 
But  I  stubb'd  'um  oop  wi'  the  lot,  an'  raaved  an' 

rembled  'um  out. 

IX 

Reaper's  it  wur;  fo'  they  fun  'um  theer  a-laaid  of  'is 

faace 
Down  i'  the  woild  'enemies2  afoor  I  coom'd  to  the 

plaace. 
Noaks  or  Thimbleby — toaner3  'ed  shot  'um  as  dead  as 

a  naail. 
Noaks  wur  'ang'd  for  it  oop  at  'soize — but  git  ma  my 

aale. 

x 

Dubbut  loook  at  the  waaste:  theer  warn't  not  feead 

for  a  cow; 

Nowt  at  all  but  bracken  an'  fuzz,  an'  loook  at  it  now — 
Warnt  worth  nowt  a  haacre,  an'  now  theer 's  lots  o' 

feead, 
Fourscoor4  yows  upon  it  an'  some  on  it  down  i*  seead.5 

XI 

Nobbut  a  bit  on  it 's  left,  an'  I  mean'd  to  'a  stubb'd 

it  at  fall, 
Done  it  ta-year  I  mean'd,  an*  runn'd  plow  thruff  it  an' 

all, 

1  Bittern.      2  Anemones.       3  One  or  other.       *  ou  as  in  hour. 
5  Clover. 

(  149  ] 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

If  godamoighty  an'  parson  'ud  nobbut  let  ma  aloan, 
Mea,  wi'  haate  hoonderd  haacre  o'  Squoire's,  an'  lond 
o'  my  oan. 

XII 

Do  godamoighty  knaw  what  a 's  doing  a-taakin'  o'  mea? 
I  beant  wonn  as  saws  'ere  a  bean  an'  yonder  a  pea; 
An'  Squoire  'ull  be  sa  mad  an'  all — a'  dear  a'  dear! 
And  I  'a  managed  for  Squoire  coom  Michaelmas  thutty 
year. 

XIII 

A  mowt  'a  taaen  owd  Joanes,  as  'ant  not  a  'aapoth  o' 

sense, 
Or  a  mowt  'a  taaen  young  Robins — a  niver  mended 

a  fence: 
But  godamoighty  a  moost  taake  mea  an'  taake  ma 

now 
Wi'aaf  the  cows  tocauve  an'  Thurnabyhoalms  to  plow! 

XIV 

Loook  'ow  quoloty  smoiles  when  they  seeas  ma  a 

passin'  boy, 
Says  to  thessen  naw  doubt '  what  a  man  a  bea  sewer- 

loy!' 
Fur  they  knaws  what  I  bean  to  Squoire  sin  fust  a 

coom'd  to  the  'All; 
I  done  moy  duty  by  Squoire  an'  I  done  moy  duty  boy 

hall. 

xv 

Squoire 's  i'  Lunnon,  an'  summun  I  reckons  'ull  'a  to 

wroite, 
For  whoa  's  to  howd  the  lond  ater  mea  thot  muddles 

ma  quoit; 

[  150] 


NORTHERN    FARMER 

Sartin-sewer  I  bea,thot  a  weant  niver  give  it  to  Joanes, 
Naw,  nor  a  raoant  to  Robins — a  niver  rembles  the 
stoans. 

XVI 

But  summun  'ull  come  ater  mea  mayhap  wi'  'is  kittle 

o'  steam 
Huzzin'  an'  maazin'  the  blessed  fealds  wi'  the  Divil's 

oan  team. 

Sin'  I  mun  doy  I  mun  doy,  thaw  loife  they  says  is  sweet, 
But  sin'  I  mun  doy  I  mun  doy,  for  I  couldn  abear  to 

see  it. 

XVII 

What  atta  stannin'  theer  fur,  an'  doesn  bring  ma  the 

aale? 

Doctor 's  a  'toattler,  lass,  an  a 's  hallus  i'  the  owd  taale ; 
I  weant  break  rules  fur  Doctor,  a  knaws  naw  moor  nor 

a  floy; 
Git  ma  my  aale  I  tell  tha,  an'  if  I  mun  doy  I  mun  doy. 


NORTHERN   FARMER 

NEW    STYLE 
I 

DOSN'T  thou'ear  my 'erse's  legs, as  they  canters  awaay  ? 
Proputty,  proputty,  proputty — that 's  what  I  'ears  'em 

saay. 
Proputty,  proputty,  proputty — Sam,  thou  's  an  ass  for 

thy  paa'ins: 
Theer 's  moor  sense  i'  one  o'  'is  legs  nor  in  all  thy 

braains. 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

II 
Woa — theer's  a  craw  to  pluck  wi'  tha,  Sam:  yon 's 

parson's  'ouse — 
Dosn't  thou  knaw  that  a  man  mun  be  eather  a  man 

or  a  mouse? 
Time  to  think  on  it  then;  for  thou '11  be  twenty  to 

weeak.1 
Proputty,  proputty — woa  then  woa — let  ma  'ear  my- 

sen  speak. 

in 

Me  an'  thy  muther,  Sammy,  'as  bean  a-talkin'  o'  thee ; 
Thou 's  bean  talkin'  to  muther,  an'  she  bean  a  tellin' 

it  me. 
Thou  '11  not  marry  for  munny — thou  's  sweet  upo' 

parson's  lass  — 
Noa — thou  '11  marry  for  luvv — an'  we  boath  on  us 

thinks  tha  an  ass. 

IV 

Seea'd  her  todaay  goa  by — Saaint's-daay — they  was 

ringing  the  bells. 

She  's  a  beauty  thou  thinks — an'  soa  is  scoors  o'  gells, 
Them  as  'as  munny  an'  all — wot's  a  beauty? — the 

flower  as  blaws. 
But  proputty,  proputty  sticks,  an'  proputty,  proputty 

graws. 

v 

Do' ant  be  stunt2:  taake  time:  I  knaws  what  maakes 

tha  sa  mad. 
Warn't  I  craazed  fur  the  lasses  myse"n  when  I  wur  a 

lad? 

1  This  week.    2  Obstinate. 

[  152  ] 


NORTHERN   FARMER 

But  I  knaw'd  aQuaaker  feller  as  often  'as  towd  ma  this : 
'Doant  thou  marry  for  munny,  but  goa  wheer  munny 

is!' 

VI 

An'  I  went  wheer  munny  war:  an'  thy  muther  coom 

to  'and, 

Wi'  lots  o'  munny  laai'd  by,  an'  a  nicetish  bit  o'  land. 

i  Maaybe  she  warn't  a  beauty :  —  I  niver  giv  it  a  thowt — 

But  warn't  she  as  good  to  cuddle  an'  kiss  as  a  lass  as 

'ant  nowt? 

VII 

Parson's  lass  'ant  nowt,  an'  she  weant  'a  nowt  when 

'e  's  dead, 
Mun  be  a  guvness,  lad,  or  summut,  and  addle1  her 

bread : 
Why?  fur  'e 's  nobbut  a  curate,  an*  weant  niver  git 

hissen  clear, 
An'  'e  maade  the  bed  as  'e  ligs  on  afoor  'e  coom'd  to 

the  shere. 

VIII 

An'  thin  'e  coom'd  to  the  parish  wi'  lots  o'  Varsity  debt, 

Stooktohistaa'iltheydid,an'  'e'antgot  shuton'emyet. 

An'  'e  ligs  on  'is  back  i'  the  grip,  wi'  noan  to  lend  'im 
a  shuvv, 

Woorse  nor  a  far-welter'd2  yowe:  fur,  Sammy,  'e  mar- 
ried fur  luvv. 

IX 

Luw?  what's  luvv?  thou  can  luvv  thy  lass  an'  'er 

munny  too, 
Maakin'  'em  goa  togither  as  they  've  good  right  to  do. 

1  Earn.  2  Or  fow-jwelter<  d,  — said  of  a  sheep  lying  on  its  back. 
[  153  ] 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

Couldn  I  luvv  thy  muther  by  cause  o'  'er  munny  laaid 
by? 

Naay — fur  I  luvv'd  'er  a  vast  sight  moor  fur  it:  rea- 
son why. 

x 

Ay,  an'  thy  muther  says  thou  wants  to  marry  the  lass, 
Cooms  of  a  gentleman  burn:  an'  we  boath  on  us  thinks 

Ilia  an  ass. 
Woa  then,  proputty,  wiltha? —  an  ass  as  near  as  mays 

nowt1  — 
Woa  then,  wiltha?  dangtha! — the  bees  is  as  fell  as 

wot.2 

XI 

Break  me  a  bit  o'  the  esh  for  his  'ead,  lad,  out  o'  the 

fence ! 
Gentleman  burn!  what 's  gentleman  burn?  is  it  shillins 

an'  pence? 
Proputty,  proputty  's  ivry thing  'ere,  an',  Sammy,  I  'm 

blest 
If  it  is  n't  the  saame  oop  yonder,  fur  them  as  'as  it 's 

the  best. 

XII 

Tis'n  them  as  'as  munny  as  breaks  into'ouses  an'  steals, 

Them  as  'as  coats  to  their  backs  an'  taakes  their  regu- 
lar meals. 

Noa,  but  it 's  them  as  niver  knaws  wheer  a  meal 's  to 
be  'ad. 

Taake  my  word  for  it,  Sammy,  the  poor  in  a  loomp  is 
bad. 

1  Makes  nothing.     2  The  flies  are  as  fierce  as  anything. 
[  154  ] 


NORTHERN    FARMER 

XIII 

Them  or  thir  feythers,  tha  sees,  mun  'a  bean  a  laazy 

lot, 
Fur  work  mun  'a  gone  to  the  gittin'  whiniver  munny 

was  got. 

Feyther  'ad  ammost  nowt ;  leastways  'is  munny  was  'id. 
But  'e  tued  an'  moil'd  'issen  dead,  an'  'e  died  a  good 

un,  'e  did. 

XIV 

Loook  thou  theer  wheer  Wrigglesby  beck  cooms  out 

by  the  'ill! 
Feyther  run  oop  to  the  farm,  an'  I  runs  oop  to  the 

mill; 
An'  I  '11  run  oop  to  the  brig,  an'  that  thou  '11  live  to 

see; 
And  if  thou  marries  a  good  un  I  '11  leave  the  land  to 

thee. 

xv 
Thim  's  my  noations,  Sammy,  wheerby  I  means  to 

stick ; 
But  if  thou  marries  a  bad  un,  I  '11  leave  the  land  to 

Dick.  - 
Coom  oop,  proputty,  proputty — that's  what  I  'ears 

'im  saay — 
Proputty,    proputty,    proputty — canter    an'    canter 

awaay. 


[  155  ] 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

LOCKSLEY    HALL 

COMRADES,  leave  me  here  a  little,  while  as  yet  'tis 

early  morn: 
Leave  me  here,  and  when  you  want  me,  sound  upon 

the  bugle-horn. 

'T  is  the  place,  and  all  around  it,  as  of  old,  the  curlews 
call, 

Dreary  gleams  about  the  moorland  flying  over  Locks- 
ley  Hall; 

Locksley  Hall,  that  in  the  distance  overlooks  the 

sandy  tracts, 
And  the  hollow  ocean-ridges  roaring  into  cataracts. 

,       Many  a  night  from  yonder  ivied  casement,  ere  I  went 

to  rest, 
Did  I  look  on  great  Orion  sloping  slowly  to  the  West. 

Many  a  night  I  saw  the  Pleiads,  rising  thro'  the  mel- 
low shade, 

Glitter  like  a  swarm  of  fire-flies  tangled  in  a  silver  braid. 

• 

Here  about  the  beach  I  wander' d,  nourishing  a  youth 

sublime 
With  the  fairy  tales  of  science,  and  the  long  result 

of  Time ; 

When  the  centuries  behind  me  like  a  fruitful  land  re- 
posed ; 
When  I  clung  to  all  the  present  for  the  promise  that 

it  closed: 

[  156  ] 


LOCKSI.EY    HALL 

When  I  dipt  into  the  future  far  as  human  eye  could 

see; 
Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder  that 

would  be. — 

In  the  Spring  a  fuller  crimson  comes  upon  the  robin's 
breast ; 

In  the  Spring  the  wanton  lapwing  gets  himself  an- 
other crest ; 

In  the  Spring  a  livelier  iris  changes  on  the  burnish'd 

dove; 
In  the  Spring  a  young  man's  fancy  lightly  turns  to 

thoughts  of  love. 

Then  her  cheek  was  pale  and  thinner  than  should  be 
for  one  so  young, 

And  her  eyes  on  all  my  motions  with  a  mute  obser- 
vance hung. 

And  I  said,  'My  cousin  Amy,  speak,  and  speak  the 

truth  to  me, 
Trust  me,  cousin,  all  the  current  of  my  being  sets  to 

thee.' 

On  her  pallid  cheek  and  forehead  came  a  colour  and 

a  light, 
As  I  have  seen  the  rosy  red  flushing  in  the'  northern 

night. 

And  she  turn'd — her  bosom  shaken  with  a  sudden 

storm  of  sighs  — 
All  the  spirit  deeply  dawning  in  the  dark  of  hazel 

eyes — 

[  157  ] 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

Saying,  'I  have  hid  my  feelings,  fearing  they  should 

do  me  wrong;' 
Saying,  'Dost  thou  love  me,  cousin?'  weeping,  'I  have 

loved  thee  long.' 

Love  took  up  the  glass  of  Time,  and  turn'd  it  in  his 

glowing  hands; 
Every  moment,  lightly  shaken,  ran  itself  in  golden 

sands. 

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote  on  all  the 

chords  with  might; 
Smote  the  chord  of  Self,  that,  trembling,  pass'd  in 

music  out  of  sight. 

Many  a  morning  on  the  moorland  did  we  hear  the 

copses  ring, 
And  her  whisper  throng'd  my  pulses  with  the  fullness 

of  the  Spring. 

Many  an  evening  by  the  waters  did  we  watch  the 

stately  ships, 
And  our  spirits  rush'd  together  at  the  touching  of  the 

lips. 

O  my  cousin,  shallow-hearted!  O  my  Amy,  mine  no 

more! 
O  the  dreary,  dreary  moorland !  O  the  barren,  barren 

shore ! 

Falser  than  all  fancy  fathoms,  falser  than  all  songs 

have  sung, 
Puppet  to  a  father's  threat,  and  servile  to  a  shrewish 

tongue ! 

[  158  ] 


LOCKSLEY    HALL 

Is  it  well  to  wish  thee  happy?  —  having  known  me  — 

to  decline 
On  a  range  of  lower  feelings  and  a  narrower  heart 

than  mine! 

Yet  it  shall  be:  thou  shalt  lower  to  his  level  day  by 

day, 
What  is  fine  within  thee  growing  coarse  to  sympathise 

with  clay. 

As  the  husband  is,  the  wife  is:  thou  art  mated  with 

a  clown, 
And  the  grossness  of  his  nature  will  have  weight  to 

drag  thee  down. 

He  will  hold  thee,  when  his  passion  shall  have  spent 

its  novel  force, 
Something  better  than  his  dog,  a  little  dearer  than  his 

horse. 

What  is  this?  his  eyes  are  heavy:  think  not  they  are 

glazed  with  wine. 
Go  to  him:  it  is  thy  duty:  kiss  him:  take  his  hand  in 

thine. 

It  may  be  my  lord  is  weary,  that  his  brain  is  over- 
wrought: 

Soothe  him  with  thy  finer  fancies,  touch  him  with  thy 
lighter  thought. 

He  will  answer  to  the  purpose,  easy  things  to  under- 
stand— 

Better  thou  wert  dead  before  me,  tho'  I  slew  thee 
with  my  hand! 

[  159  ] 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

Better  thou  and  I  were  lying,  hidden  from  the  heart's 
disgrace, 

Roll'd  in  one  another's  arms,  and  silent  in  a  last  em- 
brace. 

Cursed  be  the  social  wants  that  sin  against  the  strength 

of  youth ! 
Cursed  be  the  social  lies  that  warp  us  from  the  living 

truth! 

Cursed  be  the  sickly  forms  that  err  from  honest  Na- 
ture's rule! 

Cursed  be  the  gold  that  gilds  the  straiten'd  forehead 
of  the  fool! 

Well — 'tis  well  that  I  should  bluster! — Hadst  thou 

less  unworthy  proved  — 
Would  to  God — for  I  had  loved  thee  more  than  ever 

wife  was  loved. 

Am  I  mad,  that  I  should  cherish  that  which  bears  but 

bitter  fruit? 
I  will  pluck  it  from  my  bosom,  tho'  my  heart  be  at 

the  root. 

Never,  tho'  my  mortal  summers  to  such  length  of  years 

should  come 
As  the  many-winter'd  crow  that  leads  the  clanging 

rookery  home. 

Where  is  comfort?  in  division  of  the  records  of  the 

mind? 
Can  I  part  her  from  herself,  and  love  her,  as  I  knew 

her,  kind? 

[  160] 


LOCKSLEY    HALL 

I  remember  one  that  perish'd :  sweetly  did  she  speak 

and  move: 
Such  a  one  do  I  remember,  whom  to  look  at  was  to 

love. 

Can  I  think  of  her  as  de.ad,  and  love  her  for  the  love 
she  bore? 

No  —  she  never  loved  me  truly:  love  is  love  for  ever- 
more. 

Comfort?  comfort  scorn'd  of  devils!  this  is  truth  the 
poet  sings, 

That  a  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is  remembering  hap- 
pier things. 

Drug  thy  memories,  lest  thou  learn  it,  lest  thy  heart 

be  put  to  proof, 
In  the  dead  unhappy  night,  and  when  the  rain  is  on 

the  roof. 

Like  a  dog,  he  hunts  in  dreams,  and  thou  art  staring 

at  the  wall, 
Where  the  dying  night-lamp  flickers,  and  the  shadows 

rise  and  fall. 

Then  a  hand  shall  pass  before  thee,  pointing  to  his 

drunken  sleep, 
To  thy  widow'd  marriage-pillows,  to  the  tears  that 

thou  wilt  weep. 

Thou  shalt  hear  the  '  Never,  never,'  whisper'd  by  the 

phantom  years, 
And  a  song  from  out  the  distance  in  the  ringing  of 

thine  ears; 

[161  ] 


CHARACTER- PIECES 

And  an  eye  shall  vex  thee,  looking  ancient  kindness 

on  thy  pain. 
Turn  thee,  turn  thee  on  thy  pillow:  get  thee  to  thy 

rest  again. 

Nay,  but  Nature  brings  thee  solace ;  for  a  tender  voice 

will  cry. 
'Tis  a  purer  life  than  thine;  a  lip  to  drain  thy  trouble 

dry. 

Baby  lips  will  laugh  me  down:  my  latest  rival  brings 

thee  rest. 
Baby   fingers,  waxen   touches,   press  me   from   the 

mother's  breast. 

O,  the  child  too  clothes  the  father  with  a  dearness 

not  his  due. 
Half  is  thine  and  half  is  his :  it  will  be  worthy  of  the 

two. 

O,  I  see  thee  old  and  formal,  fitted  to  thy  petty  part, 
With   a  little  hoard   of  maxims  preaching  down  a 
daughter's  heart. 

'They  were  dangerous  guides  the  feelings — she  her- 
self was  not  exempt— 

Truly,  she  herself  had  suffer'd' — Perish  in  thy  self- 
contempt! 

Overlive  it — lower  yet — be  happy!  wherefore  should 

I  care? 

I  myself  must  mix  with  action,  lest  I  wither  by  despair. 
[  162  ] 


LOCKSLEY    HALL 

What  is  that  which  I  should  turn  to,  lighting  upon 

days  like  these? 
Every  door  is  barr'd  with  gold,  and  opens  but  to  golden 

keys. 

Every  gate  is  throng' d  with  suitors,  all  the  markets 

overflow. 
I  have  but  an  angry  fancy:  what  is  that  which  I  should 

do? 

I  had  been  content  to  perish,  falling  on  the  foeman's 

ground, 
When  the  ranks  are  roll'd  in  vapour,  and  the  winds 

are  laid  with  sound. 

But  the  jingling  of  the  guinea  helps  the  hurt  that 

Honour  feels, 
And  the  nations  do  but  murmur,  snarling  at  each 

other's  heels. 

Can  I  but  relive  in  sadness  ?  I  will  turn  that  earlier  page. 
Hide  me  from  my  deep  emotion,  O  thou  wondrous 
Mother-Age ! 

Make  me  feel  the  wild  pulsation  that  I  felt  before  the 

strife, 
When  I  heard  my  days  before  me,  and  the  tumult  of 

my  life ; 

Yearning  for  the  large  excitement  that  the  coming 
years  would  yield, 

Eager-hearted  as  a  boy  when  first  he  leaves  his  fa- 
ther's field, 

[  163  ] 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

And  at  night  along  the  dusky  highway  near  and  nearer 

drawn, 
Sees  in  heaven  the  light  of  London  flaring  like  a  dreary 

dawn; 

And  his  spirit  leaps  within  him  to  be  gone  before  him 

then, 
Underneath  the  light  he  looks  at,  in  among  the  throngs 

of  men: 

Men,  my  brothers,  men  the  workers,  ever  reaping 

something  new: 
That  which  they  have  done  but  earnest  of  the  things 

that  they  shall  do: 

For  I  dipt  into  the  future,  far  as  human  eye  could  see, 
Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder  that 
would  be; 

Saw  the  heavens  fill  with  commerce,  argosies  of  magic 

sails, 
Pilots  of  the  purple  twilight,  dropping  down  with 

costly  bales; 

Heard  the  heavens  fill  with  shouting,  and  there  rain'd 

a  ghastly  dew 
From  the  nations'  airy  navies  grappling  in  the  central 

blue; 

Far  along  the  world-wide  whisper  of  the  south-wind 

rushing  warm, 
With  the  standards  of  the  peoples  plunging  thro'  the 

thunder-storm ; 

[  164] 


LOCKSLEY    HALL 

Till  the  war-drum  throbb'd  no  longer,  and  the  battle- 
flags  were  furl'd 
In  the  Parliament  of  man,  the  Federation  of  the  world. 

There  the  common  sense  of  most  shall  hold  a  fretful 

realm  in  awe, 
And  the  kindly  earth  shall  slumber,  lapt  in  universal 

law. 

So  I  triumph'd  ere  my  passion  sweeping  thro'  me  left 

me  dry, 
Left  me  with  the  palsied  heart,  and  left  me  with  the 

jaundiced  eye; 

Eye,  to  which  all  order  festers,  all  things  here  are  out 

of  joint : 
Science  moves,  but  slowly  slowly,  creeping  on  from 

point  to  point: 

Slowly  comes  a  hungry  people,  as  a  lion  creeping 
nigher, 

Glares  at  one  that  nods  and  winks  behind  a  slowly- 
dying  fire. 

Yet  I  doubt  not  thro'  the  ages  one  increasing  purpose 
runs, 

And  the  thoughts  of  men  are  widen'd  with  the  pro- 
cess of  the  suns. 

What  is  that  to  him  that  reaps  not  harvest  of  his  youth- 
ful joys, 
Tho'  the  deep  heart  of  existence  beat  for  ever  like  a 

boy's? 

[166] 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  I  linger 

on  the  shore, 
And  the  individual  withers,  and  the  world  is  more 

and  more. 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  he  bears 

a  laden  breast, 
Full  of  sad  experience,  moving  toward  the  stillness 

of  his  rest. 

Hark,  my  merry  comrades  call  me,  sounding  on  the 

bugle-horn, 
They  to  whom  my  foolish  passion  were  a  target  for 

their  scorn: 

Shall  it  not  be  scorn  to  me  to  harp  on  such  a  moul- 

der'd  string? 
I  am  shamed  thro'  all  my  nature  to  have  loved  so  slight 

a  thing. 

Weakness  to  be  wroth  with  weakness!  woman's  plea- 
sure, woman's  pain — 

Nature  made  them  blinder  motions  bounded  in  a 
shallower  brain: 

Woman  is  the  lesser  man,  and  all  thy  passions,  match' d 

with  mine, 
Are  as  moonlight  unto  sunlight,  and  as  water  unto 

wine  — 

Here  at  least,  where  nature  sickens,  nothing.  Ah,  for 

some  retreat 
Deep  in  yonder  shining  Orient,  where  my  life  began 

to  beat; 

[  166  ] 


LOCKSLEY    HALL 

Where  in  wild  Mahratta-battle  fell  my  father  evil- 

starr'd; — 
I  was  left  a  trampled  orphan,  and  a  selfish  uncle's 

ward. 

Or  to  burst  all  links  of  habit — there  to  wander  far 

away, 
On  from  island  unto  island  at  the  gateways  of  the  day. 

Larger   constellations   burning,  mellow  moons  and 

happy  skies, 
Breadths  of  tropic  shade  and  palms  in  cluster,  knots 

of  Paradise. 

Never  conies  the  trader,  never  floats  an  European  flag, 
Slides  the  bird  o'er  lustrous  woodland,  swings  the 
trailer  from  the  crag; 

Droops  the  heavy-blossom'd  bower,  hangs  the  heavy- 
fruited  tree — 

Summer  isles  of  Eden  lying  in  dark-purple  spheres  of 
sea. 

There  methinks  would  be  enjoyment  more  than  in  this 

march  of  mind, 
In  the  steamship,  in  the  railway,  in  the  thoughts  that 

shake  mankind. 

There  the  passions  cramp'd  no  longer  shall  have  scope 

and  breathing  space; 
I  will  take  some  savage  woman,  she  shall  rear  my 

dusky  race. 

[167] 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

Iron-jointed,  supple-sinew' d,  they  shall  dive,  and  they 

shall  run, 
Catch  the  wild  goat  by  the  hair,  and  hurl  their  lances 

in  the  sun; 

Whistle  back  the  parrot's  call,  and  leap  the  rainbows 

of  the  brooks, 
Not  with  blinded   eyesight   poring  over  miserable 

books — 

Fool,  again  the  dream,  the  fancy!  but  I  know  my  words 
are  wild, 

But  I  count  the  gray  barbarian  lower  than  the  Chris- 
tian child. 

J,  to  herd  with  narrow  foreheads,  vacant  of  our  glori- 
ous gains, 

Like  a  beast  with  lower  pleasures,  like  a  beast  with 
lower  pains! 

Mated  with  a  squalid  savage — what  to  me  were  sun 

or  clime? 
I  the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  foremost  files  of 

time — 

I  that  rather  held  it  better  men  should  perish  one  by 

one, 
Than  that  earth  should  stand  at  gaze  like  Joshua's 

moon  in  Ajalon! 

Not  in  vain  the  distance  beacons.  Forward,  forward 

let  us  range, 
Let  the  great  world  spin  for  ever  down  the  ringing 

grooves  of  change. 

[  168] 


LOCKSLEY    HALL 

Thro'  the  shadow  of  the  globe  we  sweep  into  the 

younger  day: 
Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a  cycle  of  Cathay. 

Mother- Age  (for  mine  I  knew  not)  help  me  as  when 

life  begun: 
Rift  the  hills,  and  roll  the  waters,  flash  the  lightnings, 

weigh  the  Sun. 

O,  I  see  the  crescent  promise  of  my  spirit  hath  not  set. 
Ancient  founts  of  inspiration  well  thro'  all  my  fancy 
yet. 

Howsoever  these  things  be,  a  long  farewell  to  Locks- 
ley  Hall! 

Now  for  me  the  woods  may  wither,  now  for  me  the 
roof-tree  fall. 

Comes  a  vapour  from  the  margin,  blackening  over 
heath  and  holt, 

Cramming  all  the  blast  before  it,  in  its  breast  a  thun- 
derbolt. 

Let  it  fall  on  Locksley  Hall,  with  rain  or  hail,  or  fire 

or  snow; 
For  the  mighty  wind  arises,  roaring  seaward,  and  I  go. 


LADY  CLARA  VERB  DE  VERB 

LADY  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Of  me  you  shall  not  win  renown : 

You  thought  to  break  a  country  heart 
For  pastime,  ere  you  went  to  town. 
[  169  ] 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

At  me  you  smiled,  but  unbeguiled 

I  saw  the  snare,  and  I  retired: 
The  daughter  of  a  hundred  Earls, 

You  are  not  one  to  be  desired. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

I  know  you  proud  to  bear  your  name, 
Your  pride  is  yet  no  mate  for  mine, 

Too  proud  to  care  from  whence  I  came. 
Nor  would  I  break  for  your  sweet  sake 

A  heart  that  dotes  on  truer  charms. 
A  simple  maiden  in  her  flower 

Is  worth  a  hundred  coats-of-arms. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Some  meeker  pupil  you  must  find, 
For  were  you  queen  of  all  that  is, 

I  could  not  stoop  to  such  a  mind. 
You  sought  to  prove  how  I  could  love, 

And  my  disdain  is  my  reply. 
The  lion  on  your  old  stone  gates 

Is  not  more  cold  to  you  than  I. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

You  put  strange  memories  in  my  head. 
Not  thrice  your  branching  limes  have  blown 

Since  I  beheld  young  Laurence  dead. 
Oh  your  sweet  eyes,  your  low  replies: 

A  great  enchantress  you  may  be; 
But  there  was  that  across  his  throat 

Which  you  had  hardly  cared  to  see. 
[  170] 


LADY  CLARA  VERE  DE  VERE 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

When  thus  he  met  his  mother's  view, 
She  had  the  passions  of  her  kind, 

She  spake  some  certain  truths  of  you. 
Indeed  I  heard  one  bitter  word 

That  scarce  is  fit  for  you  to  hear; 
Her  manners  had  not  that  repose 

Which  stamps  the  caste  of  Vere  de  Vere. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

There  stands  a  spectre  in  your  hall  : 
The  guilt  of  blood  is  at  your  door : 

You  changed  a  wholesome  heart  to  gall. 
You  held  your  course  without  remorse, 

To  make  him  trust  his  modest  worth, 
And,  last,  you  fix'd  a  vacant  stare, 

And  slew  him  with  your  noble  birth. 

Trust  me,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

From  yon  blue  heavens  above  us  bent 
The  gardener  Adam  and  his  wife 

Smile  at  the  claims  of  long  descent. 
Howe'er  it  be,  it  seems  to  me, 

'T  is  only  noble  to  be  good. 
Kind  hearts  are  more  than  coronets, 

And  simple  faith  than  Norman  blood. 

I  know  you,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

You  pine  among  your  halls  and  towers: 

The  languid  light  of  your  proud  eyes 
Is  wearied  of  the  rolling  hours. 
C  171  ] 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

In  glowing  health,  with  boundless  wealth, 
But  sickening  of  a  vague  disease, 

You  know  so  ill  to  deal  with  time, 

You  needs  must  play  such  pranks  as  these. 

Clara,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

If  time  be  heavy  on  your  hands, 
Are  there  no  beggars  at  your  gate, 

Nor  any  poor  about  your  lands? 
Oh!  teach  the  orphan-boy  to  read, 

Or  teach  the  orphan-girl  to  sew, 
Pray  heaven  for  a  human  heart, 

And  let  the  foolish  yeoman  go. 

SELECTIONS    FROM    MAUD; 

A    MONODRAMA. 

PART    I 

V 

I 

A  VOICE  by  the  cedar  tree 
In  the  meadow  under  the  Hall! 
She  is  singing  an  air  that  is  known  to  me, 
A  passionate  ballad  gallant  and  gay, 
A  martial  song  like  a  trumpet's  call! 
Singing  alone  in  the  morning  of  life, 
In  the  happy  morning  of  life  and  of  May, 
Singing  of  men  that  in  battle  array, 
Ready  in  heart  and  ready  in  hand, 
March  with  banner  and  bugle  and  fife 
To  the  death,  for  their  native  land. 
[  172] 


SELECTIONS   FROM   MAUD 

II 

Maud  with  her  exquisite  face, 
And  wild  voice  pealing  up  to  the  sunny  sky, 
And  feet  like  sunny  gems  on  an  English  green, 
Maud  in  the  light  of  her  youth  and  her  grace, 
Singing  of  Death,  and  of  Honour  that  cannot  die, 
Till  I  well  could  weep  for  a  time  so  sordid  and  mean, 
And  myself  so  languid  and  base. 

in 

Silence,  beautiful  voice! 
Be  still,  for  you  only  trouble  the  mind 
With  a  joy  in  which  I  cannot  rejoice, 
A  glory  I  shall  not  find. 
Still!  I  will  hear  you  no  more, 
For  your  sweetness  hardly  leaves  me  a  choice 
But  to  move  to  the  meadow  and  fall  before 
Her  feet  on  the  meadow  grass,  and  adore, 
Not  her,  who  is  neither  courtly  nor  kind, 
Not  her,  not  her,  but  a  voice. 

XI 

I 

0  let  the  solid  ground 
Not  fail  beneath  my  feet 

Before  my  life  has  found 

What  some  have  found  so  sweet; 
Then  let  come  what  come  may, 
What  matter  if  I  go  mad, 

1  shall  have  had  my  day. 

[  173  ] 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

II 
Let  the  sweet  heavens  endure, 

Not  close  and  darken  above  me 
Before  I  am  quite  quite  sure 

That  there  is  one  to  love  me; 
Then  let  come  what  come  may 
To  a  life  that  has  been  so  sad, 
I  shall  have  had  my  day. 

XII 

I 
Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden 

When  twilight  was  falling, 
Maud,  Maud,  Maud,  Maud, 

They  were  crying  and  calling. 

II 
Where  was  Maud?  in  our  wood; 

And  I,  who  else,  was  with  her, 
Gathering  woodland  lilies, 

Myriads  blow  together. 

in 
Birds  in  our  wood  sang 

Ringing  thro'  the  valleys, 
Maud  is  here,  here,  here 

In  among  the  lilies. 

IV 

I  kiss'd  her  slender  hand, 
She  took  the  kiss  sedately; 
C  174  ] 


SELECTIONS    FROM    MAUD 

Maud  is  not  seventeen, 
But  she  is  tall  and  stately. 

v 

I  to  cry  out  on  pride 

Who  have  won  her  favour! 

0  Maud  were  sure  of  Heaven 
If  lowliness  could  save  her. 

VI 

1  know  the  way  she  went 

Home  with  her  maiden  posy, 
For  her  feet  have  touch'd  the  meadows 
And  left  the  daisies  rosy. 

VII 

Birds  in  the  high  Hall  garden 
Were  crying  and  calling  to  her, 

Where  is  Maud,  Maud,  Maud? 
One  is  come  to  woo  her. 

VIII 

Look,  a  horse  at  the  door, 

And  little  King  Charley  snarling, 

Go  back,  my  lord,  across  the  moor, 
You  are  not  her  darling. 

XVII 

Go  not,  happy  day, 

From  the  shining  fields, 

Go  not,  happy  day, 
Till  the  maiden  yields. 
[  175  ] 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

Rosy  is  the  West, 

Rosy  is  the  South, 
Roses  are  her  cheeks, 

And  a  rose  her  mouth 
When  the  happy  Yes 

Falters  from  her  lips, 
Pass  and  blush  the  news 

Over  glowing  ships; 
Over  blowing  seas, 

Over  seas  at  rest, 
Pass  the  happy  news, 

Blush  it  thro'  the  West; 
Till  the  red  man  dance 

By  his  red  cedar-tree, 
And  the  red  man's  babe 

Leap,  beyond  the  sea. 
Blush  from  West  to  East, 

Blush  from  East  to  West, 
Till  the  West  is  East, 

Blush  it  thro'  the  West. 
Rosy  is  the  West, 

Rosy  is  the  South, 
Roses  are  her  cheeks, 

And  a  rose  her  mouth. 

XVIII 

I 

I  have  led  her  home,  my  love,  my  only  friend. 
There  is  none  like  her,  none. 
And  never  yet  so  warmly  ran  my  blood 
And  sweetly,  on  and  on, 
[  176  ] 


SELECTIONS    FROM    MAUD 

Calming  itself  to  the  long-wish'd-for  end, 
Full  to  the  banks,  close  on  the  promised  good. 

II 

None  like  her,  none. 

Just  now  the  dry-tongued  laurels'  pattering  talk 
Seem'd  her  light  foot  along  the  garden  walk, 
And  shook  my  heart  to  think  she  comes  once  more; 
But  even  then  I  heard  her  close  the  door, 
The  gates  of  Heaven  are  closed,  and  she  is  gone. 

in  ' 

There  is  none  like  her,  none, 
Nor  will  be  when  our  summers  have  deceased. 
O,  art  thou  sighing  for  Lebanon 
In  the  long  breeze  that  streams  to  thy  delicious  East, 
Sighing  for  Lebanon, 

Dark  cedar,  tho'  thy  limbs  have  here  increased, 
Upon  a  pastoral  slope  as  fair, 
And  looking  to  the  South,  and  fed 
With  honey' d  rain  and  delicate  air, 
And  haunted  by  the  starry  head 
Of  her  whose  gentle  will  has  changed  my  fate, 
And  made  my  life  a  perfumed  altar-flame; 
And  over  whom  thy  darkness  must  have  spread 
With  such  delight  as  theirs  of  old,  thy  great 
Forefathers  of  the  thornless  garden,  there 
Shadowing  the  snow-limb'd  Eve  from  whom  she  came. 

IV 

Here  will  I  lie,  while  these  long  branches  sway, 
And  you  fair  stars  that  crown  a  happy  day 
[177  ] 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

Go  in  and  out  as  if  at  merry  play, 

Who  am  no  more  all  so  forlorn, 

As  when  it  seem'd  far  better  to  be  born 

To  labour  and  the  mattock-harden'd  hand, 

Than  nursed  at  ease  and  brought  to  understand 

A  sad  astrology,  the  boundless  plan 

That  makes  you  tyrants  in  your  iron  skies, 

Innumerable,  pitiless,  passionless  eyes, 

Cold  fires,  yet  with  power  to  burn  and  brand 

His  nothingness  into  man. 


But  now  shine  on,  and  what  care  I, 

Who  in  this  stormy  gulf  have  found  a  pearl 

The  countercharm  of  space  and  hollow  sky, 

And  do  accept  my  madness,  and  would  die 

To  save  from  some  slight  shame  one  simple  girl. 

VI 

Would  die;  for  sullen-seeming  Death  may  give 

More  life  to  Love  than  is  or  ever  was 

In  our  low  world,  where  yet  't  is  sweet  to  live. 

Let  no  one  ask  me  how  it  came  to  pass; 

It  seems  that  I  am  happy,  that  to  me 

A  livelier  emerald  twinkles  in  the  grass, 

A  purer  sapphire  melts  into  the  sea. 

VII 

Not  die ;  but  live  a  life  of  truest  breath, 
And  teach  true  life  to  fight  with  mortal  wrongs. 
O,  why  should  Love,  like  men  in  drinking-songs, 
Spice  his  fair  banquet  with  the  dust  of  death? 
[  178] 


SELECTIONS   FROM   MAUD 

Make  answer,  Maud  my  bliss, 

Maud  made  my  Maud  by  that  long  loving  kiss, 

Life  of  my  life,  wilt  thou  not  answer  this? 

'The  dusky  strand  of  Death  inwoven  here 

With  dear  Love's  tie,  makes  Love  himself  more  dear. 

VIII 

Is  that  enchanted  moan  only  the  swell 

Of  the  long  waves  that  roll  in  yonder  bay  ? 

And  hark  the  clock  within,  the  silver  knell 

Of  twelve  sweet  hours  that  past  in  bridal  white, 

And  died  to  live,  long  as  my  pulses  play; 

But  now  by  this  my  love  has  closed  her  sight 

And  given  false  death  her  hand,  and  stol'n  away 

To  dreamful  wastes  where  footless  fancies  dwell 

Among  the  fragments  of  the  golden  day. 

May  nothing  there  her  maiden  grace  affright! 

Dear  heart,  I  feel  with  thee  the  drowsy  spell. 

My  bride  to  be,  my  evermore  delight, 

My  own  heart's  heart,  my  ownest  own,  farewell; 

It  is  but  for  a  little  space  I  go: 

And  ye  meanwhile  far  over  moor  and  fell 

Beat  to  the  noiseless  music  of  the  night! 

Has  our  whole  earth  gone  nearer  to  the  glow 

Of  your  soft  splendours  that  you  look  so  bright? 

7  have  climb'd  nearer  out  of  lonely  Hell. 

Beat,  happy  stars,  timing  with  things  below, 

Beat  with  my  heart  more  blest  than  heart  can  tell, 

Blest,  but  for  some  dark  undercurrent  woe 

That  seems  to  draw  —  but  it  shall  not  be  so: 

Let  all  be  well,  be  well. 

[  179] 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

XXII 

I 
Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown, 
Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone; 
And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted  abroad, 
And  the  musk  of  the  rose  is  blown. 

II 
For  a  breeze  of  morning  moves, 

And  the  planet  of  Love  is  on  high, 
Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that  she  loves 

On  a  bed  of  daffodil  sky, 
To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sun  she  loves, 

To  faint  in  his  light,  and  to  die. 

in 
All  night  have  the  roses  heard 

The  flute,  violin,  bassoon; 
All  night  has  the  casement  jessamine  stirr'd 

To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune; 
Till  a  silence  fell  with  the  waking  bird, 

And  a  hush  with  the  setting  moon. 

IV 

I  said  to  the  lily,  'There  is  but  one 
With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gay. 

When  will  the  dancers  leave  her  alone? 
She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play.' 

Now  half  to  the  setting  moon  are  gone, 
[  180] 


SELECTIONS   FROM   MAUD 

And  half  to  the  rising  day ; 
Low  on  the  sand  and  loud  on  the  stone 
The  last  wheel  echoes  away. 

v 

I  said  to  the  rose,  'The  brief  night  goes 

In  babble  and  revel  and  wine. 
O  young  lord-lover,  what  sighs  are  those, 

For  one  that  will  never  be  thine  ? 
But  mine,  but  mine,'  so  I  sware  to  the  rose^ 

'For  ever  and  ever,  mine.' 

VI 

And  the  soul  of  the  rose  went  into  my  blood, 

As  the  music  clash' d  in  the  hall; 
And  long  by  the  garden  lake  I  stood, 

For  I  heard  your  rivulet  fall 
From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  and  on  to  the  wood, 

Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all ; 

VII 

From  the  meadow  your  walks  have  left  so  sweet 

That  whenever  a  March-wind  sighs 
He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet 

In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes, 
To  the  woody  hollows  in  which  we  meet 

And  the  valleys  of  Paradise. 

VIII 

The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 

One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree; 
The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the  lake 

As  the  pimpernel  dozed  on  the  lea; 
[  181  ] 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

But  the  rose  was  awake  all  night  for  your  sake, 

Knowing  your  promise  to  me; 
The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake, 

They  sigh'd  for  the  dawn  and  thee. 

IX 

Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls, 
Come  hither,  the  dances  are  done, 

In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls, 
Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one; 

Shine  out,  little  head,  sunning  over  with  curls, 
To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun. 


There  has  fallen  a  splendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 
She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear; 

She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate; 
The  red  rose  cries,  'She  is  near,  she  is  near;' 

And  the  white  rose  weeps,  'She  is  late;' 
The  larkspur  listens,  'I  hear,  I  hear;' 

And  the  lily  whispers,  (I  wait.' 

XI 

She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet; 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread, 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed; 
My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead ; 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet, 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 
[  182  ] 


SELECTIONS    FROM    MAUD 

PART    II 
II 
I 

SEE  what  a  lovely  shell, 
Small  and  pure  as  a  pearl, 
Lying  close  to  my  foot, 
Frail,  but  a  work  divine, 
Made  so  fairily  well 
With  delicate  spire  and  whorl, 
How  exquisitely  minute, 
A  miracle  of  design ! 

II 

What  is  it?  a  learned  man 
Could  give  it  a  clumsy  name. 
Let  him  name  it  who  can, 
The  beauty  would  be  the  same. 

in 

The  tiny  cell  is  forlorn, 
Void  of  the  little  living  will 
That  made  it  stir  on  the  shore. 
Did  he  stand  at  the  diamond  door 
Of  his  house  in  a  rainbow  frill  ? 
Did  he  push,  when  he  was  uncurl'd, 
A  golden  foot  or  a  fairy  horn 
Thro'  his  dim  water- world? 

IV 

Slight,  to  be  crush'd  with  a  tap 
Of  my  finger-nail  on  the  sand, 
[  183  ] 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

Small,  but  a  work  divine, 
Frail,  but  of  force  to  withstand, 
Year  upon  year,  the  shock 
Of  cataract  seas  that  snap 
The  three  decker's  oaken  spine 
Athwart  the  ledges  of  rock, 
Here  on  the  Breton  strand! 

Ill 

Courage,  poor  heart  of  stone ! 

I  will  not  ask  thee  why 

Thou  canst  not  understand 

That  thou  art  left  for  ever  alone: 

Courage,  poor  stupid  heart  of  stone.  — 

Or  if  I  ask  thee  why, 

Care  not  thou  to  reply: 

She  is  but  dead,  and  the  time  is  at  hand 

When  thou  shalt  more  than  die. 

IV 

(In  this  section  the  text  is  that  of  the  first  edition, 
as  found  in  "Stanzas"  from  The  Tribute,  1837.) 

Oh!  that  'twere  possible, 

After  long  grief  and  pain, 
To  find  the  arms  of  my  true-love 

Round  me  once  again! 

When  I  was  wont  to  meet  her 
In  the  silent  woody  places 

Of  the  land  that  gave  me  birth, 
We  stood  tranced  in  long  embraces, 
C  184  ] 


SELECTIONS   FROM    MAUD 

Mixt  with  kisses  sweeter,  sweeter, 
Than  any  thing  on  earth. 

A  shadow  flits  before  me — 

Not  thou,  but  like  to  thee. 
Ah  God !  that  it  were  possible 

For  one  short  hour  to  see 
The  souls  we  loved,  that  they  might  tell  us 

What  and  where  they  be. 

It  leads  me  forth  at  Evening, 

It  lightly  winds  and  steals 
In  a  cold  white  robe  before  me, 

When  all  my  spirit  reels 
At  the  shouts,  the  leagues  of  lights, 

And  the  roaring  of  the  wheels. 

Half  the  night  I  waste  in  sighs, 

In  a  wakeful  doze  I  sorrow 
For  the  hand,  the  lips,  the  eyes — 

For  the  meeting  of  to-morrow, 

The  delight  of  happy  laughter, 
The  delight  of  low  replies. 

Do  I  hear  the  pleasant  ditty, 
That  I  heard  her  chant  of  old? 

But  I  wake  —  my  dream  is  fled. 
Without  knowledge,  without  pity — 
In  the  shuddering  dawn  behold, 

By  the  curtains  of  my  bed, 
That  abiding  phantom  cold. 
[  185  ] 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

Then  I  rise:  the  eave-drops  fall 
And  the  yellow-vapours  choke. 

The  great  city  sounding  wide; 
The  day  comes — a  dull  red  ball, 
Wrapt  in  drifts  of  lurid  smoke, 
Ori  the  misty  river-tide. 

Thro'  the  hubbub  of  the  market 

I  steal,  a  wasted  frame; 
It  crosseth  here,  it  crosseth  there  — 
Thro'  all  the  crowd,  confused  and  loud, 

The  shadow  still  the  same; 
And  on  my  heavy  eyelids 

My  anguish  hangs  like  shame. 

Alas  for  her  that  met  me, 
That  heard  me  softly  call — 

Came  glimmering  thro'  the  laurels 
At  the  quiet  even-fall, 

In  the  garden  by  the  turrets 
Of  the  old  Manorial  Hall. 

Then  the  broad  light  glares  and  beats, 

And  the  sunk  eye  flits  and  fleets, 
And  will  not  let  me  be. 

I  loathe  the  squares  and  streets, 
And  the  faces  that  one  meets, 

Hearts  with  no  love  for  me; 
Always  I  long  to  creep 
To  some  still  cavern  deep, 
And  to  weep  and  weep  and  weep 

My  whole  soul  out  to  thee. 
[  186  ] 


SELECTIONS    FROM    MAUD 

Get  thee  hence,  nor  come  again 
Pass  and  cease  to  move  about — 

Pass,  thou  death-like  type  of  pain, 
Mix  not  memory  with  doubt. 

'T  is  the  blot  upon  the  brain 
That  will  show  itself  without. 

Would  the  happy  Spirit  descend 
In  the  chamber  or  the  street 

As  she  looks  among  the  blest; 
Should  I  fear  to  greet  my  friend, 
Or  to  ask  her,  "Take  me,  sweet, 
To  the  region  of  thy  rest." 

But  she  tarries  in  her  place, 
And  I  paint  the  beauteous  face 
Of  the  maiden,  that  I  lost, 
In  my  inner  eyes  again, 
Lest  my  heart  be  overborne 
By  the  thing  I  hold  in  scorn, 
By  a  dull  mechanic  ghost 
And  a  juggle  of  the  brain. 

I  can  shadow  forth  my  bride 
As  I  knew  her  fair  and  kind, 

As  I  woo'd  her  for  my  wife; 
She  is  lovely  by  my  side 

In  the  silence  of  my  life — 
'T  is  a  phantom  of  the  mind. 

'T  is  a  phantom  fair  and  good ; 
I  can  call  it  to  my  side, 

So  to  guard  my  life  from  ill, 
L187  ] 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

Tho'  its  ghastly  sister  glide 

And  be  moved  around  me  still 
With  the  moving  of  the  blood, 

That  is  moved  not  of  the  will. 

Let  it  pass,  the  dreary  brow, 

Let  the  dismal  face  go  by. 
Will  it  lead  me  to  the  grave? 
Then  I  lose  it:  it  will  fly: 
Can  it  overlast  the  nerves? 

Can  it  overlive  the  eye? 
But  the  other,  like  a  star, 
Thro'  the  channel  windeth  far 

Till  it  fade  and  fail  and  die, 
To  its  Archetype  that  waits, 
Clad  in  light  by  golden  gates - 
Clad  in  light  the  Spirit  waits 

To  embrace  me  in  the  sky. 


RIZPAH 
17— 

I 
WAILING,  wailing,  wailing,  the  wind  over  land  and 

sea — 
And  Willy's  voice  in  the  wind,  'O  mother,  come  out 

to  me.' 
Why  should  he  call  me  to-night,  when  he  knows  that 

I  cannot  go? 

For  the  downs  are  as  bright  as  day,  and  the  full  moon 
stares  at  the  snow. 

[  188  ] 


RIZPAH 

II 
We  should  be  seen,  my  dear;  they  would  spy  us  out 

of  the  town. 
The  loud  black  nights  for  us,  and  the  storm  rushing 

over  the  down, 
When  I  cannot  see  my  own  hand,  but  am  led  by  the 

creak  of  the  chain, 
And  grovel  and  grope  for  my  son  till  I  find  myself 

drenched  with  the  rain. 

in 

Anything  fallen  again?  nay — what  was  there  left  to 

fall? 
I  have  taken  them  home,  I  have  number'd  the  bones, 

I  have  hidden  them  all. 
What  am  I  saying?  and  what  are  you?  do  you  come 

as  a  spy? 
Falls?  what  falls?  who  knows?  As  the  tree  falls  so 

must  it  lie. 

IV 

Who  let  her  in?  how  long  has  she  been?  you — what 

have  you  heard? 
Why  did  you  sit  so  quiet?  you  never  have  spoken  a 

word. 
O — to  pray  with  me — yes — a  lady — none  of  their 

spies — 
But  the  night  has  crept  into  my  heart,  and  begun  to 

darken  my  eyes. 

[  189] 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

v 

Ah — you,  that  have  lived  so  soft,  what  should  you 

know  of  the  night, 
The  blast  and  the  burning  shame  and  the  bitter  frost 

and  the  fright? 
I  have  done  it,  while  you  were  asleep — you  were  only 

made  for  the  day. 
I  have  gather'd  my  baby  together — and  now  you  may 

go  your  way. 

VI 

Nay — for  it's  kind  of  you,  Madam,  to  sit  by  an  old 

dying  wife. 
But  say  nothing  hard  of  my  boy,  I  have  only  an  hour 

of  life. 

I  kiss'd  my  boy  in  the  prison,  before  he  went  out  to  die. 
'They  dared  me  to  do  it,'  he  said,  and  he  never  has 

told  me  a  lie. 
I  whipt  him  for  robbing  an  orchard  once  when  he  was 

but  a  child — 

'The  farmer  dared  me  to  do  it,'  he  said;  he  was  al- 
ways so  wild — 
And  idle  —  and  couldn't  be  idle — my  Willy — he 

never  could  rest. 
The  King  should  have  made  him  a  soldier,  he  would 

have  been  one  of  his  best. 

VII 

But  he  lived  with  a  lot  of  wild  mates,  and  they  never 

would  let  him  be  good ; 
They  swore  that  he  dare  not  rob  the  mail,  and  he  swore 

that  he  would; 

[  190  ] 


HIZPAH 

And  he  took  no  life,  but  he  took  one  purse,  and  when 

all  was  done 
He  flung  it  among  his  fellows — I  '11  none  of  it,  said 

my  son. 

VIII 

I  came  into  court  to  the  Judge  and  the  lawyers.  I  told 

them  my  tale, 
God's  own  truth — but  they  kill'd  him,  they  kill'd  him 

for  robbing  the  mail. 
They  hang'd  him  in  chains  for  a  show — we  had  always 

borne  a  good  name  — 
To  be  hang'd  for  a  thief — and  then  put  away — is  n't 

that  enough  shame? 
Dust  to  dust — low  down — let  us  hide!  but  they  set 

him  so  high 
That  all  the  ships  of  the  world  could  stare  at  him, 

passing  by. 
God  'ill  pardon  the  hell-black  raven  and  horrible  fowls 

of  the  air, 
But  not  the  black  heart  of  the  lawyer  who  kill'd  him 

and  hang'd  him  there. 

IX 

And  the  jailer  forced  me  away.  I  had  bid  him  my  last 

goodbye ; 
They  had  fasten' d  the  door  of  his  cell.  'O  mother!' 

I  heard  him  cry. 
I  couldn't  get  back  tho'  I  tried,  he  had  something 

further  to  say, 
And  now  I  never  shall  know  it.  The  jailer  forced  me 

away. 

[  191  ] 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

x 

Then  since  I  could  n't  but  hear  that  cry  of  my  boy 

that  was  dead, 
They  seized  me  and  shut  me  up:  they  fasten'd  me 

down  on  my  bed. 
'Mother,  O  mother!' — he  call'd  in  the  dark  to  me 

year  after  year — 
They  beat  me  for  that,  they  beat  me — you  know  that 

I  couldn't  but  hear; 
And  then  at  the  last  they  found  I  had  grown  so  stupid 

and  still 
They  let  me  abroad  again — but  the  creatures  had 

worked  their  will. 

XI 

Flesh  of  my  flesh  was  gone,  but  bone  of  my  bone  was 

left— 
I  stole  them  all  from  the  lawyers — and  you,  will  you 

call  it  a  theft?  — 
My  baby,  the  bones  that  had  suck'd  me,  the  bones  that 

had  laugh'd  and  had  cried — 
Theirs?  O  no!  they  are  mine — not  theirs — they  had 

moved  in  my  side. 

XII 

Do  you  think  I  was  scared  by  the  bones?  I  kiss'd  'em, 
I  buried  'em  all — 

I  can't  dig  deep,  I  am  old — in  the  night  by  the  church- 
yard wall. 

My  Willy  'ill  rise  up  whole  when  the  trumpet  of  judge- 
ment'ill  sound; 

But  I  charge  you  never  to  say  that  I  laid  him  in  holy 
ground. 

[  192  ] 


RIZPAH 

XIII 
They  would  scratch  him  up — they  would  hang  him 

again  on  the  cursed  tree. 

Sin?  O  yes — we  are  sinners,  I  know — let  all  that  be, 
And  read  me  a  Bible  verse  of  the  Lord's  good  will 

toward  men — 
'Full  of  compassion  and  mercy,  the  Lord' — let  me 

hear  it  again; 
'Full  of  compassion  and  mercy — long-suffering.'  Yes, 

O  yes! 
For  the  lawyer  is  born  but  to  murder — the  Saviour 

lives  but  to  bless. 
He  '11  never  put  on  the  black  cap  except  for  the  worst 

of  the  worst, 
And  the  first  may  be  last — I  have  heard  it  in  church — 

and  the  last  may  be  first. 
Suffering — O  long-suffering — yes,  as  the  Lord  must 

know, 
Year  after  year  in  the  mist  and  the  wind  and  the 

shower  and  the  snow. 

XIV 

Heard,  have  you?  what?  they  have  told  you  he  never 

repented  his  sin. 
How  do  they  know  it?  are  they  his  mother?  are  you  of 

his  kin? 
Heard!  have  you  ever  heard,  when  the  storm  on  the 

downs  began, 
The  wind  that  'ill  wail  like  a  child  and  the  sea  that 

'ill  moan  like  a  man? 


[  193  ] 


CHARACTER-PIECES 

XV 

Election,  Election  and  Reprobation — it's  all  very  well. 
But  I  go  to-night  to  my  boy,  and  I  shall  not  find  him 

in  Hell. 
For  I  cared  so  much  for  my  boy  that  the  Lord  has 

look'd  into  my  care, 
And  He  means  me  I  'm  sure  to  be  happy  with  Willy, 

I  know  not  where. 

XVI 

And  if  he  be  lost — but  to  save  my  soul,  that  is  all  your 

desire : 
Do  you  think  that  I  care  for  my  soul  if  my  boy  be  gone 

to  the  fire? 
I  have  been  with  God  in  the  dark — go,  go,  you  may 

leave  me  alone — 
You  never  have  borne  a  child — you  are  just  as  hard 

as  a  stone. 

XVII 

Madam,  I  beg  your  pardon!  I  think  that  you  mean 
to  be  kind, 

But  I  cannot  hear  what  you  say  for  my  Willy's  voice 
in  the  wind — 

The  snow  and  the  sky  so  bright — he  used  but  to  call 
in  the  dark, 

And  he  calls  to  me  now  from  the  church  and  not 
from  the  gibbet  —  for  hark! 

Nay — you  can  hear  it  yourself — it  is  coming — shak- 
ing the  walls  — 

Willy  —  the  moon's  in  a  cloud  —  Good-night.  I  am 
going.  He  calls. 

[  194  ] 


Ill 

SELECTIONS   FROM    EPIC   POEML 


THE    PRINCESS 

BOOK    VII 

So  was  their  sanctuary  violated, 

So  their  fair  college  turn'd  to  hospital; 

At  first  with  all  confusion :  by  and  by 

Sweet  order  lived  again  with  other  laws: 

A  kindlier  influence  reign'd;  and  everywhere 

Low  voices  with  the  ministering  hand 

Hung  round  the  sick:  the  maidens  came,  they  talk'd, 

They  sang,  they  read:  till  she  not  fair  began 

To  gather  light,  and  she  that  was,  became 

Her  former  beauty  treble;  and  to  and  fro 

With  books,  with  flowers,  with  Angel  offices, 

Like  creatures  native  unto  gracious  act, 

And  in  their  own  clear  element,  they  moved. 

But  sadness  on  the  soul  of  Ida  fell, 
And  hatred  of  her  weakness,  blent  with  shame. 
Old  studies  fail'd;  seldom  she  spoke:  but  oft 
Clomb  to  the  roofs,  and  gazed  alone  for  hours 
,  On  that  disastrous  leaguer,  swarms  of  men 
Darkening  her  female  field:  void  was  her  use, 
And  she  as  one  that  climbs  a  peak  to  gaze 
O'er  land  and  main,  and  sees  a  great  black  cloud 
Drag  inward  from  the  deeps,  a  wall  of  night, 
Blot  out  the  slope  of  sea  from  verge  to  shore, 
And  suck  the  blinding  splendour  from  the  sand, 
And  quenching  lake  by  lake  and  tarn  by  tarn 
Expunge  the  world:  so  fared  she  gazing  there; 
So  blacken'd  all  her  world  in  secret,  blank 


SELECTIONS    FROM    EPIC    POEMS 

And  waste  it  seem'd  and  vain;  till  down  she  came, 
And  found  fair  peace  once  more  among  the  sick. 

And  twilight  dawn'd;  and  morn  by  morn  the  lark 
Shot  up  and  shrill'd  in  flickering  gyres,  but  I 
Lay  silent  in  the  muffled  cage  of  life : 
And  twilight  gloom'd;  and  broader-grown  the  bowers 
Drew  the  great  night  into  themselves,  and  Heaven, 
Star  after  star,  arose  and  fell ;  but  I, 
Deeper  than  those  weird  doubts  could  reach  me,  lay 
Quite  sunder'd  from  the  moving  Universe, 
Nor  knew  what  eye  was  on  me,  nor  the  hand 
That  nursed  me,  more  than  infants  in  their  sleep. 


But  I  lay  still,  and  with  me  oft  she  sat: 
Then  came  a  change;  for  sometimes  I  would  catch 
Her  hand  in  wild  delirium,  gripe  it  hard, 
And  fling  it  like  a  viper  off,  and  shriek 
'You  are  not  Ida;'  clasp  it  once  again, 
And  call  her  Ida,  tho'  I  knew  her  not, 
And  call  her  sweet,  as  if  in  irony, 
And  call  her  hard  and  cold  which  seem'd  a  truth: 
And  still  she  fear'd  that  I  should  lose  my  mind, 
And  often  she  believed  that  I  should  die: 
Till  out  of  long  frustation  of  her  care, 
And  pensive  tendance  in  the  all-weary  noons, 
And  watches  in  the  dead,  the  dark,  when  clocks 
Throbb'd  thunder  thro'  the  palace  floors,  or  call'd 
On  flying  Time  from  all  their  silver  tongues  — 
And  out  of  memories  of  her  kindlier  days, 
And  sidelong  glances  at  my  father's  grief, 
[  198  ] 


THE    PRINCESS,  BOOK    VII 

And  at  the  happy  lovers  heart  in  heart — 
And  out  of  hauntings  of  my  spoken  love, 
And  lonely  listenings  to  my  mutter' d  dream, 
And  often  feeling  of  the  helpless  hands, 
And  wordless  broodings  on  the  wasted  cheek  — 
From  all  a  closer  interest  flourish'd  up, 
Tenderness  touch  by  touch,  and  last,  to  these, 
Love,  like  an  Alpine  harebell  hung  with  tears 
By  some  cold  morning  glacier;  frail  at  first 
And  feeble,  all  unconscious  of  itself, 
But  such  as  gather' d  colour  day  by  day. 

Last  I  woke  sane,  but  well-nigh  close  to  death 
For  weakness:  it  was  evening:  silent  light 
Slept  on  the  painted  walls,  wherein  were  wrought 
Two  grand  designs;  for  on  one  side  arose 
The  women  up  in  wild  revolt,  and  storm'd 
At  the  Oppian  law.  Titanic  shapes,  they  cramm'd 
The  forum,  and  half-crush'd  among  the  rest 
A  dwarf-like  Cato  cower'd.  On  the  other  side 
Hortensia  spoke  against  the  tax;  behind, 
A  train  of  dames :  by  axe  and  eagle  sat, 
With  all  their  foreheads  drawn  in  Roman  scowls, 
And  half  the  wolf  s-milk  curdled  in  their  veins, 
The  fierce  triumvirs;  and  before  them  paused 
Hortensia  pleading:  angry  was  her  face. 

I  saw  the  forms:  I  knew  not  where  I  was: 
They  did  but  look  like  hollow  shows;  nor  more 
Sweet  Ida:  palm  to  palm  she  sat:  the  dew 
Dwelt  in  her  eyes,  and  softer  all  her  shape 
And  rounder  seem'd:  I  moved:  I  sigh'd:  a  touch 
[  199  ] 


SELECTIONS    FROM   EPIC    POEMS 

Came  round  my  wrist,  and  tears  upon  my  hand: 

Then  all  for  languor  and  self-pity  ran 

Mine  down  my  face,  and  with  what  life  I  had, 

And  like  a  flower  that  cannot  all  unfold, 

So  drench'd  it  is  with  tempest,  to  the  sun, 

Yet,  as  it  may,  turns  toward  him,  I  on  her 

Fixt  my  faint  eyes,  and  utter'd  whisperingly  : 

'  If  you  be,  what  I  think  you,  some  sweet  dream, 
I  would  but  ask  you  to  fulfil  yourself: 
But  if  you  be  that  Ida  whom  I  knew, 
I  ask  you  nothing :  only,  if  a  dream, 
Sweet  dream,  be  perfect.  I  shall  die  to-night 
Stoop  down  and  seem  to  kiss  me  ere  I  die.' 

I  could  no  more,  but  lay  like  one  in  trance, 
That  hears  his  burial  talk'd  of  by  his  friends, 
And  cannot  speak,  nor  move,  nor  make  one  sign, 
But  lies  and  dreads  his  doom.  She  turn'd;  she  paused; 
She  stoop'd;  and  out  of  languor  leapt  a  cry; 
Leapt  fiery  Passion  from  the  brinks  of  death ; 
And  I  believed  that  in  the  living  world 
My  spirit  closed  with  Ida's  at  the  lips; 
Till  back  I  fell,  and  from  mine  arms  she  rose 
Glowing  all  over  noble  shame;  and  all 
Her  falser  self  slipt  from  her  like  a  robe, 
And  left  her  woman,  lovelier  in  her  mood 
Than  in  her  mould  that  other,  when  she  came 
From  barren  deeps  to  conquer  all  with  love; 
And  down  the  streaming  crystal  dropt;  and  she 
Far-fleeted  by  the  purple  island-sides, 
Naked,  a  double  light  in  air  and  wave, 
[  200  ] 


THE    PRINCESS,  BOOK    VII 

To  meet  her  Graces,  where  they  deck'd  her  out 
For  worship  without  end;  nor  end  of  mine, 
Stateliest,  for  thee!  but  mute  she  glided  forth, 
Nor  glanced  behind  her,  and  I  sank  and  slept, 
Fill'd  thro'  and  thro'  with  Love,  a  happy  sleep. 

Deep  in  the  night  I  woke:  she,  near  me,  held 
A  volume  of  the  Poets  of  her  land: 
There  to  herself,  all  in  low  tones,  she  read. 

'Now  sleeps  the  crimson  petal,  now  the  white; 
Nor  waves  the  cypress  in  the  palace  walk; 
Nor  winks  the  gold  fin  in  the  porphyry  font: 
The  fire-fly  wakens:  waken  thou  with  me. 

Now  droops  the  milkwhite  peacock  like  a  ghost, 
And  like  a  ghost  she  glimmers  on  to  me. 

Now  lies  the  Earth  all  Danae  to  the  stars, 
And  all  thy  heart  lies  open  unto  me. 

Now  slides  the  silent  meteor  on,  and  leaves 
A  shining  furrow,  as  thy  thoughts  in  me. 

Now  folds  the  lily  all  her  sweetness  up, 
And  slips  into  the  bosom  of  the  lake: 
So  fold  thyself,  my  dearest,  thou,  and  slip 
Into  my  bosom  and  be  lost  in  me.' 

I  heard  her  turn  the  page;  she  found  a  small 
Sweet  Idyl,  and  once  more,  as  low,  she  read  : 
[  201  ] 


SELECTIONS    FROM    EPIC    POEMS 

'Come  down,O  maid,  from  yonder  mountain  height: 
What  pleasure  lives  in  height  (the  shepherd  sang) 
In  height  and  cold,  the  splendour  of  the  hills? 
But  cease  to  move  so  near  the  Heavens,  and  cease 
To  glide  a  sunbeam  by  the  blasted  Pine, 
To  sit  a  star  upon  the  sparkling  spire; 
And  come,  for  Love  is  of  the  valley,  come, 
For  Love  is  of  the  valley,  come  thou  down 
And  find  him;  by  the  happy  threshold,  he, 
Or  hand  in  hand  with  Plenty  in  the  maize, 
Or  red  with  spirted  purple  of  the  vats, 
Or  foxlike  in  the  vine;  nor  cares  to  walk 
With  Death  and  Morning  on  the  silver  horns, 
Nor  wilt  thou  snare  him  in  the  white  ravine, 
Nor  find  him  dropt  upon  the  firths  of  ice, 
That  huddling  slant  in  furrow-cloven  falls 
To  roll  the  torrent  out  of  dusky  doors : 
But  follow;  let  the  torrent  dance  thee  down 
To  find  him  in  the  valley ;  let  the  wild 
Lean-headed  Eagles  yelp  alone,  and  leave 
The  monstrous  ledges  there  to  slope,  and  spill 
Their  thousand  wreaths  of  dangling  water-smoke, 
That  like  a  broken  purpose  waste  in  air: 
So  waste  not  thou;  but  come;  for  all  the  vales 
Await  thee ;  azure  pillars  of  the  hearth 
Arise  to  thee;  the  children  call,  and  I 
Thy  shepherd  pipe,  and  sweet  is  every  sound, 
Sweeter  thy  voice,  but  every  sound  is  sweet; 
Myriads  of  rivulets  hurrying  thro'  the  lawn, 
The  moan  of  doves  in  immemorial  elms, 
And  murmuring  of  innumerable  bees.' 

[  202  ] 


THE    PRINCESS,  BOOK    VII 

So  she  low-toned;  while  with  shut  eyes  I  lay 
Listening;  then  look'd.  Pale  was  the  perfect  face; 
The  bosom  with  long  sighs  labour'd;  and  meek 
Seem'd  the  full  lips,  and  mild  the  luminous  eyes, 
And  the  voice  trembled  and  the  hand.  She  said 
Brokenly,  that  she  knew  it,  she  had  fail'd 
In  sweet  humility ;  had  fail'd  in  all ; 
That  all  her  labour  was  but  as  a  block 
Left  in  the  quarry;  but  she  still  were  loth, 
She  still  were  loth  to  yield  herself  to  one 
That  wholly  scorn'd  to  help  their  equal  rights 
Against  the  sons  of  men,  and  barbarous  laws. 
She  pray'd  me  not  to  judge  their  cause  from  her 
That  wrong'd  it,  sought  far  less  for  truth  than  power 
In  knowledge:  something  wild  within  her  breast, 
A  greater  than  all  knowledge,  beat  her  down. 
And  she  had  nursed  me  there  from  week  to  week: 
Much  had  she  learnt  in  little  time.  In  part 
It  was  ill  counsel  had  misled  the  girl 
To  vex  true  hearts:  yet  was  she  but  a  girl — 
'Ah  fool,  and  made  myself  a  Queen  of  farce! 
When  comes  another  such?  never,  I  think, 
Till  the  Sun  drop,  dead,  from  the  signs.' 

Her  voice 

Choked,  and  her  forehead  sank  upon  her  hands, 
And  her  great  heart  thro'  all  the  faultful  Past 
Went  sorrowing  in  a  pause  I  dared  not  break; 
Till  notice  of  a  change  in  the  dark  world 
Was  lispt  about  the  acacias,  and  a  bird, 
That  early  woke  to  feed  her  little  ones, 
Sent  from  a  dewy  breast  a  cry  for  light: 

She  moved,  and  at  her  feet  the  volume  fell. 
[  203  ] 


SELECTIONS    FROM    EPIC    POEMS 

'Blame  not  thyself  too  much/  I  said,  'nor  blame 
Too  much  the  sons  of  men  and  barbarous  laws ; 
These  were  the  rough  ways  of  the  world  till  now. 
Henceforth  thou  hast  a  helper,  me,  that  know 
The  woman's  cause  is  man's:  they  rise  or  sink 
Together,  dwarf  d  or  godlike,  bond  or  free: 
For  she  that  out  of  Lethe  scales  with  man 
The  shining  steps  of  Nature,  shares  with  man 
His  nights,  his  days,  moves  with  him  to  one  goal, 
Stays  all  the  fair  young  planet  in  her  hands — 
If  she  be  small,  slight-natured,  miserable, 
How  shall  men  grow?  but  work  no  more  alone! 
Our  place  is  much:  as  far  as  in  us  lies 
We  two  will  serve  them  both  in  aiding  her — 
Will  clear  away  the  parasitic  forms 
That  seem  to  keep  her  up  but  drag  her  down — 
Will  leave  her  space  to  burgeon  out  of  all 
Within  her — let  her  make  herself  her  own 
To  give  or  keep,  to  live  and  learn  and  be 
All  that  not  harms  distinctive  womanhood. 
For  woman  is  not  undevelopt  man, 
But  diverse:  could  we  make  her  as  the  man, 
Sweet  Love  were  slain:  his  dearest  bond  is  this, 
Not  like  to  like,  but  like  in  difference. 
Yet  in  the  long  years  liker  must  they  grow; 
The  man  be  more  of  woman,  she  of  man ; 
He  gain  in  sweetness  and  in  moral  height, 
Nor  lose  the  wrestling  thews  that  throw  the  world; 
She  mental  breadth,  nor  fail  in  childward  care, 
Nor  lose  the  childlike  in  the  larger  mind ; 
Till  at  the  last  she  set  herself  to  man, 

[  204  ] 


THE    PRINCESS,  BOOK    VII 

Like  perfect  music  unto  noble  words; 

And  so  these  twain,  upon  the  skirts  of  Time, 

Sit  side  by  side,  full-summ'd  in  all  their  powers, 

Dispensing  harvest,  sowing  the  To-be, 

Self-reverent  each  and  reverencing  each, 

Distinct  in  individualities, 

But  like  each  other  ev'n  as  those  who  love. 

Then  comes  the  statelier  Eden  back  to  men: 

Then  reign  the  world's  great  bridals,  chaste  and  calm: 

Then  springs  the  crowning  race  of  humankind. 

May  these  things  be!' 

Sighing  she  spoke,  'I  fear 
They  will  not.' 

'Dear,  but  let  us  type  them  now 
In  our  own  lives,  and  this  proud  watchword  rest 
Of  equal ;  seeing  either  sex  alone 
Is  half  itself,  and  in  true  marriage  lies 
Nor  equal,  nor  unequal:  each  fulfils 
Defect  in  each,  and  always  thought  in  thought, 
Purpose  in  purpose,  will  in  will,  they  grow, 
The  single  pure  and  perfect  animal, 
The  two-cell'd  heart  beating,  with  one  full  stroke, 
Life.' 

And  again  sighing  she  spoke:  'A  dream 
That  once  was  mine!  what  woman  taught  you  this?' 

'Alone,'  I  said,  'from  earlier  than  I  know, 
Imrrersed  in  rich  foresh  ado  wings  of  the  world, 
I  loved  the  woman :  he,  that  doth  not,  lives 
A  drowning  life,  besotted  in  sweet  self, 
Or  pines  in  sad  experience  worse  than  death, 
Or  keeps  his  wing'd  affections  dipt  with  crime: 
[  205  ] 


SELECTIONS    FROM    EPIC    POEMS 

Yet  was  there  one  thro'  whom  I  loved  her,  one 
Not  learned,  save  in  gracious  household  ways, 
Not  perfect,  nay,  but  full  of  tender  wants, 
No  Angel,  but  a  dearer  being,  all  dipt 
In  Angel  instincts,  breathing  Paradise, 
Interpreter  between  the  Gods  and  men, 
Who  look'd  all  native  to  her  place,  and  yet 
On  tiptoe  seem'd  to  touch  upon  a  sphere 
Too  gross  to  tread,  and  all  male  minds  perforce 
Sway'd  to  her  from  their  orbits  as  they  moved, 
And  girdled  her  with  music.  Happy  he 
With  such  a  mother!  faith  in  womankind 
Beats  with  his  blood,  and  trust  in  all  things  high 
Comes  easy  to  him,  and  tho'  he  trip  and  fall 
He  shall  not  blind  his  soul  with  clay.' 

'But  I,' 

Said  Ida,  tremulously,  'so  all  unlike  — 
It  seems  you  love  to  cheat  yourself  with  words : 
This  mother  is  your  model.  I  have  heard 
Of  your  strange  doubts :  they  well  might  be :  I  seem 
A  mockery  to  my  own  self.  Never,  Prince ; 
You  cannot  love  me.' 

'Nay  but  thee,'  I  said, 

'From  yearlong  poring  on  thy  pictured  eyes, 
Ere  seen  I  loved,  and  loved  thee  seen,  and  saw 
Thee  woman  thro'  the  crust  of  iron  moods 
That  mask'd  thee  from  men's  reverence  up,  and  forced 
Sweet  love  on  pranks  of  saucy  boyhood :  now, 
Giv'n  back  to  life,  to  life  indeed,  thro'  thee, 
Indeed  I  love:  the  new  day  comes,  the  light 
Dearer  for  night,  as  dearer  thou  for  faults 

[  206  ] 


GUINEVERE 

Lived  over:  lift  thine  eyes;  my  doubts  are  dead, 
My  haunting  sense  of  hollow  shows :  the  change, 
This  truthful  change  in  thee  has  kill'd  it.  Dear, 
Look  up,  and  let  thy  nature  strike  on  mine, 
Like  yonder  morning  on  the  blind  half-world, 
Approach  and  fear  not;  breathe  upon  my  brows; 
In  that  fine  air  I  tremble,  all  the  past 
Melts  mist-like  into  this  bright  hour,  and  this 
Is  morn  to  more,  and  all  the  rich  to-come 
Reels,  as  the  golden  Autumn  woodland  reels 
Athwart  the  smoke  of  burning  weeds.  Forgive  me, 
I  waste  my  heart  in  signs:  let  be.  My  bride, 
My  wife,  my  life.  O  we  will  walk  this  world. 
Yoked  in  all  exercise  of  noble  end, 
And  so  thro'  those  dark  gates  across  the  wild 
That  no  man  knows.  Indeed  I  love  thee:  come, 
Yield  thyself  up :  my  hopes  and  thine  are  one : 
Accomplish  thou  my  manhood  and  thyself; 
Lay  thy  sweet  hands  in  mine  and  trust  to  me.' 


GUINEVERE 

QUEEN  GUINEVERE  had  fled  the  court,  and  sat 
There  in  the  holy  house  at  Almesbury 
Weeping,  none  with  her  save  a  little  maid, 
A  novice:  one  low  light  betwixt  them  burn'd 
Blurr'd  by  the  creeping  mist,  for  all  abroad, 
Beneath  a  moon  unseen  albeit  at  full, 
The  white  mist,  like  a  face-cloth  to  the  face, 
Clung  to  the  dead  earth,  and  the  land  was  still. 

[  207  ] 


SELECTIONS    FROM    EPIC    POEMS 

For  hither  had  she  fled,  her  cause  of  flight 
Sir  Modred;  he  that  like  a  subtle  beast 
Lay  couchant  with  his  eyes  upon  the  throne, 
Ready  to  spring,  waiting  a  chance:  for  this 
He  chill'd  the  popular  praises  of  the  King 
With  silent  smiles  of  slow  disparagement ; 
And  tamper' d  with  the  Lords  of  the  White  Horse, 
Heathen,  the  brood  by  Hengist  left;  and  sought 
To  make  disruption  in  the  Table  Round 
Of  Arthur,  and  to  splinter  it  into  feuds 
Serving  his  traitorous  end ;  and  all  his  aims 
Were  sharpen'd  by  strong  hate  for  Lancelot. 

For  thus  it  chanced  one  morn  when  all  the  court, 
Green-suited,  but  with  plumes  that  mock'd  the  may, 
Had  been,  their  wont,  a-maying  and  return'd, 
That  Modred  still  in  green,  all  ear  and  eye, 
Climb'd  to  the  high  top  of  the  garden-wall 
To  spy  some  secret  scandal  if  he  might, 
And  saw  the  Queen  who  sat  betwixt  her  best 
Enid,  and  lissome  Vivien,  of  her  court 
The  wiliest  and  the  worst;  and  more  than  this 
He  saw  not,  for  Sir  Lancelot  passing  by 
Spied  where  he  couch'd,  and  as  the  gardener's  hand 
Picks  from  the  colewort  a  green  caterpillar, 
So  from  the  high  wall  and  the  flowering  grove 
Of  grasses  Lancelot  pluck'd  him  by  the  heel, 
And  cast  him  as  a  worm  upon  the  way; 
But  when  he  knew  the  Prince  tho'  marr'd  with  dust, 
He,  reverencing  king's  blood  in  a  bad  man, 
Made  such  excuses  as  he  might,  and  these 
Full  knightly  without  scorn;  for  in  those  days 
[  208  ] 


GUINEVERE 

No  knight  of  Arthur's  noblest  dealt  in  scorn ; 

But,  if  a  man  were  halt  or  hunch'd,  in  him 

By  those  whom  God  had  made  full-limb'd  and  tall, 

Scorn  was  allow'd  as  part  of  his  defect, 

And  he  was  answer'd  softly  by  the  King 

And  all  his  Table.  So  Sir  Lancelot  holp 

To  raise  the  Prince,  who  rising  twice  or  thrice 

Full  sharply  smote  his  knees,  and  smiled,  and  went: 

But,  ever  after,  the  small  violence  done 

Rankled  in  him  and  ruffled  all  his  heart, 

As  the  sharp  wind  that  ruffles  all  day  long 

A  little  bitter  pool  about  a  stone 

On  the  bare  coast. 

But  when  Sir  Lancelot  told 
This  matter  to  the  Queen,  at  first  she  laugh'd 
Lightly,  to  think  of  Modred's  dusty  fall, 
Then  shudder' d,  as  the  village  wife  who  cries 
'I  shudder,  some  one  steps  across  my  grave;' 
Then  laugh'd  again,  but  faintlier,  for  indeed 
She  half- foresaw  that  he,  the  subtle  beast, 
Would  track  her  guilt  until  he  found,  and  hers 
Would  be  for  evermore  a  name  of  scorn. 
Henceforward  rarely  could  she  front  in  hall, 
Or  elsewhere,  Modred's  narrow  foxy  face, 
Heart-hiding  smile,  and  gray  persistent  eye: 
Henceforward  too,  the  Powers  that  tend  the  soul, 
To  help  it  from  the  death  that  cannot  die, 
And  save  it  even  in  extremes,  began 
To  vex  and  plague  her.  Many  a  time  for  hours, 
Beside  the  placid  breathings  of  the  King, 
In  the  dead  night,  grim  faces  came  and  went 
[  209  ] 


SELECTIONS    FROM    EPIC    POEMS 

Before  her,  or  a  vague  spiritual  fear — 

Like  to  some  doubtful  noise  of  creaking  doors, 

Heard  by  the  watcher  in  a  haunted  house, 

That  keeps  the  rust  of  murder  on  the  walls  — 

Held  her  awake:  or  if  she  slept,  she  dream'd 

An  awful  dream ;  for  then  she  seem'd  to  stand 

On  some  vast  plain  before  a  setting  sun, 

And  from  the  sun  there  swiftly  made  at  her 

A  ghastly  something,  and  its  shadow  flew 

Before  it,  till  it  touch'd  her,  and  she  turn'd  — 

When  lo!  her  own,  that  broadening  from  her  feet, 

And  blackening,  swallow'd  all  the  land,  and  in  it 

Far  cities  burnt,  and  with  a  cry  she  woke. 

And  all  this  trouble  did  not  pass  but  grew; 

Till  ev'n  the  clear  face  of  the  guileless  King, 

And  trustful  courtesies  of  household  life, 

Became  her  bane ;  and  at  the  last  she  said, 

'O  Lancelot,  get  thee  hence  to  thine  own  land, 

For  if  thou  tarry  we  shall  meet  again, 

And  if  we  meet  again,  some  evil  chance 

Will  make  the  smouldering  scandal  break  and  blaze 

Before  the  people,  and  our  lord  the  King.' 

And  Lancelot  ever  promised,  but  remain'd, 

And  still  they  met  and  met.  Again  she  said, 

' O  Lancelot,  if  thou  love  me  get  thee  hence.' 

And  then  they  were  agreed  upon  a  night 

(When  the  good  King  should  not  be  there)  to  meet 

And  part  for  ever.  Vivien,  lurking,  heard. 

She  told  Sir  Modred.  Passion-pale  they  met 

And  greeted.  Hands  in  hands,  and  eye  to  eye, 

Low  on  the  border  of  her  couch  they  sat 

[  210  ] 


GUINEVERE 

Stammering  and  staring.  It  was  their  last  hour, 

A  madness  of  farewells.  And  Modred  brought 

His  creatures  to  the  basement  of  the  tower 

For  testimony;  and  crying  with  full  voice 

'Traitor,  come  out,  ye  are  trapt  at  last,'  aroused 

Lancelot,  who  rushing  outward  lionlike 

Leapt  on  him,  and  hurl'd  him  headlong,  and  he  fell 

Stunn'd,  and  his  creatures  took  and  bare  him  off, 

And  all  was  still:  then  she,  'The  end  is  come, 

And  I  am  shamed  for  ever;'  and  he  said, 

'Mine  be  the  shame;  mine  was  the  sin:  but  rise, 

And  fly  to  my  strong  castle  overseas: 

There  will  I  hide  thee,  till  my  life  shall  end, 

There  hold  thee  with  my  life  against  the  world.' 

She  answer'd,  'Lancelot,  wilt  thou  hold  me  so? 

Nay,  friend,  for  we  have  taken  our  farewells. 

Would  God  that  thou  couldst  hide  me  from  myself! 

Mine  is  the  shame,  for  I  was  wife,  and  thou 

Unwedded:  yet  rise  now,  and  let  us  fly, 

For  I  will  draw  me  into  sanctuary, 

And  bide  my  doom.'  So  Lancelot  got  her  horse, 

Set  her  thereon,  and  mounted  on  his  own, 

And  then  they  rode  to  the  divided  way, 

There  kiss'd,  and  parted  weeping:  for  he  past, 

Love-loyal  to  the  least  wish  of  the  Queen, 

Back  to  his  land;  but  she  to  Almesbury 

Fled  all  night  long  by  glimmering  waste  and  weald, 

And  heard  the  Spirits  of  the  waste  and  weald 

Moan  as  she  fled,  or  thought  she  heard  them  moan: 

And  in  herself  she  moan'd,  'Too  late,  too  late!' 

Till  in  the  cold  wind  that  foreruns  the  morn, 

[  211  ] 


SELECTIONS    FROM    EPIC    POEMS 

A  blot  in  heaven,  the  Raven,  flying  high, 
Croak'd,  and  she  thought, 'He  spies  a  field  of  death; 
For  now  the  Heathen  of  the  Northern  Sea, 
Lured  by  the  crimes  and  frailties  of  the  court, 
Begin  to  slay  the  folk,  and  spoil  the  land.' 

And  when  she  came  to  Almesbury  she  spake 
There  to  the  nuns,  and  said,  '.Mine  enemies 
Pursue  me,  but,  O  peaceful  Sisterhood, 
Receive,  and  yield  me  sanctuary,  nor  ask 
Her  name  to  whom  ye  yield  it,  till  her  time 
To  tell  you:'  and  her  beauty,  grace,  and  power, 
Wrought  as  a  charm  upon  them,  and  they  spared 
To  ask  it. 

So  the  stately  Queen  abode 
For  many  a  week,  unknown,  among  the  nuns; 
Nor  with  them  mix'd,  nor  told  her  name,  nor  sought, 
Wrapt  in  her  grief,  for  housel  or  for  shrift, 
But  communed  only  with  the  little  maid, 
Who  pleased  her  with  a  babbling  heedlessness 
Which  often  lured  her  from  herself;  but  now, 
This  night,  a  rumour  wildly  blown  about 
Came,  that  Sir  Modred  had  usurp'd  the  realm, 
And  leagued  him  with  the  heathen,  while  the  King 
Was  waging  war  on  Lancelot:  then  she  thought, 
'With  what  a  hate  the  people  and  the  King 
Must  hate  me,'  and  bow'd  down  upon  her  hands 
Silent,  until  the  little  maid,  who  brook'd 
No  silence,  brake  it,  uttering,  'Late!  so  late! 
What  hour,  I  wonder,  now?'  and  when  she  drew 
No  answer,  by  and  by  began  to  hum 

[  212  ] 


GUINEVERE 

An  air  the  nuns  had  taught  her,  'Late,  so  late!' 
Which  when  she  heard,  the  Queen  look'd  up,  and  said, 
'O  maiden,  if  indeed  ye  list  to  sing, 
Sing,  and  unbind  my  heart  that  I  may  weep.' 
Whereat  full  willingly  sang  the  little  maid. 

'Late,  late,  so  late!  and  dark  the  night  and  chill! 
Late,  late,  so  late!  but  we  can  enter  still. 
Too  late,  too  late !  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

'No  light  had  we:  for  that  we  do  repent; 
And  learning  this,  the  bridegroom  will  relent. 
Too  late,  too  late!  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

'No  light:  so  late!  and  dark  and  chill  the  night! 
O  let  us  in,  that  we  may  find  the  light! 
Too  late,  too  late :  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

'Have  we  not  heard  the  bridegroom  is  so  sweet? 
O  let  us  in,  tho'  late,  tp  kiss  his  feet! 
No,  no,  too  late!  ye  cannot  enter  now.' 

So  sang  the  novice,  while  full  passionately, 
Her  head  upon  her  hands,  remembering 
Her  thought  when  first  she  came,  wept  the  sad  Queen. 
Then  said  the  little  novice  prattling  to  her, 

'O  pray  you,  noble  lady,  weep  no  more; 
But  let  my  words,  the  words  of  one  so  small, 
Who  knowing  nothing  knows  but  to  obey, 
And  if  I  do  not  there  is  penance  given  — 
Comfort  your  sorrows;  for  they  do  not  flow 
From  evil  done ;  right  sure  am  I  of  that, 
[  213  ] 


SELECTIONS    FROM    EPIC    POEMS 

Who  see  your  tender  grace  and  stateliness. 

But  weigh  your  sorrows  with  our  lord  the  King's, 

And  weighing  find  them  less ;  for  gone  is  he 

To  wage  grim  war  against  Sir  Lancelot  there, 

Round  that  strong  castle  where  he  holds  the  Queen ; 

And  Modred  whom  he  left  in  charge  of  all, 

The  traitor — Ah  sweet  lady,  the  King's  grief 

For  his  own  self,  and  his  own  Queen,  and  realm, 

Must  needs  be  thrice  as  great  as  any  of  ours. 

For  me,  I  thank  the  saints,  I  am  not  great. 

For  if  there  ever  come  a  grief  to  me 

I  cry  my  cry  in  silence,  and  have  done. 

None  knows  it,  and  my  tears  have  brought  me  good : 

But  even  were  the  griefs  of  little  ones 

As  great  as  those  of  great  ones,  yet  this  grief 

Is  added  to  the  griefs  the  great  must  bear, 

That  howsoever  much  they  may  desire 

Silence,  they  cannot  weep  behind  a  cloud: 

As  even  here  they  talk  at  Almesbury 

About  the  good  King  and  his  wicked  Queen, 

And  were  I  such  a  King  with  such  a  Queen, 

Well  might  I  wish  to  veil  her  wickedness, 

But  were  I  such  a  King,  it  could  not  be.' 

Then  to  her  own  sad  heart  mutter'd  the  Queen, 
'Will  the  child  kill  me  with  her  innocent  talk?' 
But  openly  she  answer'd,  'Must  not  I, 
If  this  false  traitor  have  displaced  his  lord, 
Grieve  with  the  common  grief  of  all  the  realm?' 

'Yea,'  said  the  maid,  'this  is  all  woman's  grief, 
That  she  is  woman,  whose  disloyal  life 
[  214  ] 


GUINEVERE 

Hath  wrought  confusion  in  the  Table  Round 
Which  good  King  Arthur  founded,  years  ago, 
With  signs  and  miracles  and  wonders,  there 
At  Camelot,  ere  the  coming  of  the  Queen.' 

Then  thought  the  Queen  within  herself  again, 
'Will  the  child  kill  me  with  her  foolish  prate?' 
But  openly  she  spake  and  said  to  her, 
'O  little  maid,  shut  in  by  nunnery  walls, 
What  canst  thou  know  of  Kings  and  Tables  Round, 
Or  what  of  signs  and  wonders,  but  the  signs 
And  simple  miracles  of  thy  nunnery?' 

To  whom  the  little  novice  garrulously, 
fYea,  but  I  know:  the  land  was  full  of  signs 
And  wonders  ere  the  coming  of  the  Queen. 
So  said  my  father,  and  himself  was  knight 
Of  the  great  Table — at  the  founding  of  it; 
And  rode  thereto  from  Lyonesse,  and  he  said 
That  as  he  rode,  an  hour  or  maybe  twain 
After  the  sunset,  down  the  coast,  he  heard 
Strange  music,  and  he  paused,  and  turning — there, 
All  down  the  lonely  coast  of  Lyonesse, 
Each  with  a  beacon-star  upon  his  head, 
And  with  a  wild  sea-light  about  his  feet, 
He  saw  them — headland  after  headland  flame 
Far  on  into  the  rich  heart  of  the  west: 
And  in  the  light  the  white  mermaiden  swam, 
And  strong  man-breasted  things  stood  from  the  sea, 
And  sent  a  deep  sea-voice  thro'  all. the  land, 
To  which  the  little  elves  of  chasm  and  cleft 
Made  answer,  sounding  like  a  distant  horn. 
[  215  ] 


SELECTIONS    FROM    EPIC    POEMS 

So  said  my  father — yea,  and  furthermore, 
Next  morning,  while  he  passed  the  dim-lit  woods, 
Himself  beheld  three  spirits  mad  with  joy 
Come  dashing  down  on  a  tall  wayside  flower, 
That  shook  beneath  them,  as  the  thistle  shakes 
When  three  gray  linnets  wrangle  for  the  seed: 
And  still  at  evenings  on  before  his  horse 
The  flickering  fairy-circle  wheel'd  and  broke 
Flying,  and  link'd  again,  and  wheel'd  and  broke 
Flying,  for  all  the  land  was  full  of  life. 
And  when  at  last  he  came  to  Camelot, 
A  wreath  of  airy  dancers  hand-in-hand 
Swung  round  the  lighted  lantern  of  the  hall ; 
And  in  the  hall  itself  was  such  a  feast 
As  never  man  had  dream'd;  for  every  knight 
Had  whatsoever  meat  he  long'd  for  served 
By  hands  unseen ;  and  even  as  he  said 
Down  in  the  cellars  merry  bloated  things 
Shoulder'd  the  spigot,  straddling  on  the  butts 
While  the  wine  ran :  so  glad  were  spirits  and  men 
Before  the  coming  of  the  sinful  Queen.' 

Then  spake  the  Queen  and  somewhat  bitterly, 
'Were  they  so  glad?  ill  prophets  were  they  all, 
Spirits  and  men :  could  none  of  them  foresee, 
Not  even  thy  wise  father  with  his  signs 
And  wonders,  what  has  fall'n  upon  the  realm?' 

To  whom  the  novice  garrulously  again, 
fYea,  one,  a  bard;  of  whom  my  father  said, 
Full  many  a  noble  war-song  had  he  sung, 
Ev'n  in  the  presence  of  an  enemy's  fleet, 
[  216  ] 


GUINEVERE 

Between  the  steep  cliff  and  the  coming  wave; 

And  many  a  mystic  lay  of  life  and  death 

Had  chanted  on  the  smoky  mountain-tops, 

When  round  him  bent  the  spirits  of  the  hills 

With  all  their  dewy  hair  blown  back  like  flame : 

So  said  my  father — and  that  night  the  bard 

Sang  Arthur's  glorious  wars,  and  sang  the  King 

As  wellnigh  more  than  man,  and  rail'd  at  those 

Who  call'd  him  the  false  son  of  Gorloi's: 

For  there  was  no  man  knew  from  whence  he  came; 

But  after  tempest,  when  the  long  wave  broke 

All  down  the  thundering  shores  of  Bude  and  Bos, 

There  came  a  day  as  still  as  heaven,  and  then 

They  found  a  naked  child  upon  the  sands 

Of  dark  Tintagil  by  the  Cornish  sea ; 

And  that  was  Arthur;  and  they  foster'd  him 

Till  he  by  miracle  was  approven  King: 

And  that  his  grave  should  be  a  mystery 

From  all  men,  like  his  birth;  and  could  he  find 

A  woman  in  her  womanhood  as  great 

As  he  was  in  his  manhood,  then,  he  sang, 

The  twain  together  well  might  change  the  world. 

But  even  in  the  middle  of  his  song 

He  falter'd,  and  his  hand  fell  from  the  harp, 

And  pale  he  turn'd,  and  reel'd,  and  would  have  fall'n, 

But  that  they  stay'd  him  up;  nor  would  he  tell 

His  vision;  but  what  doubt  that  he  foresaw 

This  evil  work  of  Lancelot  and  the  Queen?' 

Then  thought  the  Queen, '  Lo !  they  have  set  her  on, 
Our  simple-seeming  Abbess  and  her  nuns, 
To  play  upon  me,'  and  bow'd  her  head  nor  spake. 
[  217  ] 


SELECTIONS    FROM    EPIC    POEMS 

Whereat  the  novice  crying,  with  clasp'd  hands, 

Shame  on  her  own  garrulity  garrulously, 

Said  the  good  nuns  would  check  her  gadding  tongue 

Full  often,  'and,  sweet  lady,  if  I  seem 

To  vex  an  ear  too  sad  to  listen  to  me, 

Unmannerly,  with  prattling  and  the  tales 

Which  my  good  father  told  me,  check  me  too 

Nor  let  me  shame  my  father's  memory,  one 

Of  noblest  manners,  tho'  himself  would  say 

Sir  Lancelot  had  the  noblest ;  and  he  died, 

Kill'd  in  a  tilt,  come  next,  five  summers  back, 

And  left  me  ;  but  of  others  who  remain, 

And  of  the  two  first-famed  for  courtesy — 

And  pray  you  check  me  if  I  ask  amiss — 

But  pray  you,  which  had  noblest,  while  you  moved 

Among  them,  Lancelot  or  our  lord  the  King?' 

Then  the  pale  Queen  look'd  up  and  answer'd  her, 
'Sir  Lancelot,  as  became  a  noble  knight, 
Was  gracious  to  all  ladies,  and  the  same 
In  open  battle  or  the  tilting-field 
Forbore  his  own  advantage,  and  the  King 
In  open  battle  or  the  tilting-field 
Forbore  his  own  advantage,  and  these  two 
Were  the  most  nobly-manner'd  men  of  all; 
For  manners  are  not  idle,  but  the  fruit 
Of  loyal  nature,  and  of  noble  mind.' 

'Yea,'  said  the  maid,  'be  manners  such  fair  fruit? 
Then  Lancelot's  needs  must  be  a  thousand-fold 
Less  noble,  being,  as  all  rumour  runs, 
The  most  disloyal  friend  in  all  the  world.' 
[  218  ] 


GUINEVERE 

To  which  a  mournful  answer  made  the  Queen: 
'O  closed  about  by  narrowing  nunnery-walls, 
What  knowest  thou  of  the  world,  and  all  its  lights 
And  shadows,  all  the  wealth  and  all  the  woe? 
If  ever  Lancelot,  that  most  noble  knight, 
Were  for  one  hour  less  noble  than  himself, 
Pray  for  him  that  he  scape  the  doom  of  fire, 
And  weep  for  her  who  drew  him  to  his  doom.' 

'Yea,'  said  the  little  novice,  fl  pray  for  both; 
But  I  should  all  as  soon  believe  that  his, 
Sir  Lancelot's,  were  as  noble  as  the  King's, 
As  I  could  think,  sweet  lady,  yours  would  be 
Such  as  they  are,  were  you  the  sinful  Queen.' 

So  she,  like  many  another  babbler,  hurt 
Whom  she  would  soothe,  and  harm'd  where  she  would 

heal; 

For  here  a  sudden  flush  of  wrathful  heat 
Fired  all  the  pale  face  of  the  Queen,  who  cried, 
'Such  as  thou  art  be  never  maiden  more 
For  ever!  thou  their  tool,  set  on  to  plague 
And  play  upon,  and  harry  me,  petty  spy 
And  traitress.'  When  that  storm  of  anger  brake 
From  Guinevere,  aghast  the  maiden  rose, 
White  as  her  veil,  and  stood  before  the  Queen 
As  tremulously  as  foam  upon  the  beach 
Stands  in  a  wind,  ready  to  break  and  fly, 
And  when  the  Queen  had  added  'Get  thee  hence/ 
Fled  frighted.  Then  that  other  left  alone 
Sigh'd,  and  began  to  gather  heart  again, 
Saying  in  herself,  'The  simple,  fearful  child 
[  219  ] 


SELECTIONS   FROM   EPIC    POEMS 

Meant  nothing,  but  my  own  too-fearful  guilt, 
Simpler  than  any  child,  betrays  itself. 
But  help  me,  heaven,  for  surely  I  repent. 
For  what  is  true  repentance  but  in  thought — 
Not  ev'n  in  inmost  thought  to  think  again 
The  sins  that  made  the  past  so  pleasant  to  us: 
And  I  have  sworn  never  to  see  him  mbre, 
To  see  him  more.' 

And  ev'n  in  saying  this, 
Her  memory  from  old  habit  of  the  mind 
Went  slipping  back  upon  the  golden  days 
In  which  she  saw  him  first,  when  Lancelot  came, 
Reputed  the  best  knight  and  goodliest  man, 
Ambassador,  to  lead  her  to  his  lord 
Arthur,  and  led  her  forth,  and  far  ahead 
Of  his  and  her  retinue  moving,  they, 
Rapt  in  sweet  talk  or  lively,  all  on  love 
And  sport  and  tilts  and  pleasure,  (for  the  time 
Was  may  time,  and  as  yet  no  sin  was  dream' d,) 
Rode  under  groves  that  look'd  a  paradise 
Of  blossom,  over  sheets  of  hyacinth 
That  seem'd  the  heavens  upbreaking  thro'  the  earth, 
And  on  from  hill  to  hill,  and  every  day 
Beheld  at  noon  in  some  delicious  dale 
The  silk  pavilions  of  King  Arthur  raised 
For  brief  repast  or  afternoon  repose 
By  couriers  gone  before;  and  on  again, 
Till  yet  once  more  ere  set  of  sun  they  saw 
The  Dragon  of  the  great  Pendragonship, 
That  crown'd  the  state  pavilion  of  the  King, 
Blaze  by  the  rushing  brook  or  silent  well. 
[  220  ] 


GUINEVERE 

But  when  the  Queen  immersed  in  such  a  trance, 
And  moving  thro'  the  past  unconsciously, 
Came  to  that  point  where  first  she  saw  the  King 
Ride  toward  her  from  the  city,  sigh'd  to  find 
Her  journey  done,  glanced  at  him,  thought  him  cold, 
High,  self-contain' d,  and  passionless,  not  like  him, 
'Not  like  my  Lancelot'  —  while  she  brooded  thus 
And  grew  half-guilty  in  her  thoughts  again, 
There  rode  an  armed  warrior  to  the  doors. 
A  murmuring  whisper  thro'  the  nunnery  ran, 
Then  on  a  sudden  a  cry,  'The  King.'  She  sat 
Stiff-stricken,  listening;  but  when  armed  feet 
Thro'  the  long  gallery  from  the  outer  doors 
Rang  coming,  prone  from  off  her  seat  she  fell, 
And  grovell'd  with  her  face  against  the  floor: 
There  with  her  milkwhite  arms  and  shadowy  hair 
She  made  her  face  a  darkness  from  the  King: 
And  in  the  darkness  heard  his  armed  feet 
Pause  by  her;  then  came  silence,  then  a  voice, 
Monotonous  and  hollow  like  a  Ghost's 
Denouncing  judgment,  but  tho'  changed,  the  King's: 

fLiest  thou  here  so  low,  the  child  of  one 
I  honour'd,  happy,  dead  before  thy  shame? 
Well  is  it  that  no  child  is  born  of  thee. 
The  children  born  of  thee  are  sword  and  fire, 
Red  ruin,  and  the  breaking  up  of  laws, 
The  craft  of  kindred  and  the  Godless  hosts 
Of  heathen  swarming  o'er  the  Northern  Sea; 
Whom  I,  while  yet  Sir  Lancelot,  my  right  arm, 
The  mightiest  of  my  knights,  abode  with  me, 
Have  everywhere  about  this  land  of  Christ 
[  221] 


SELECTIONS    FROM    EPIC    POEMS 

In  twelve  great  battles  ruining  overthrown. 

And  knowest  thou  now  from  whence  I  come — from 

him, 

From  waging  bitter  war  with  him:  and  he, 
That  did  not  shun  to  smite  me  in  worse  way, 
Had  yet  that  grace  of  courtesy  in  him  left, 
He  spared  to  lift  his  hand  against  the  King 
Who  made  him  knight:  but  many  a  knight  was  slain; 
And  many  more,  and  all  his  kith  and  kin 
Clave  to  him,  and  abode  in  his  own  land. 
And  many  more  when  Modred  raised  revolt, 
Forgetful  of  their  troth  and  fealty,  clave 
To  Modred,  and  a  remnant  stays  with  me. 
And  of  this  remnant  will  I  leave  a  part, 
True  men  who  love  me  still,  for  whom  I  live, 
To  guard  thee  in  the  wild  hour  coming  on, 
Lest  but  a  hair  of  this  low  head  be  harm'd. 
Fear  not:  thou  shalt  be  guarded  till  my  death. 
Howbeit  I  know,  if  ancient  prophecies 
Have  err'd  not,  that  I  march  to  meet  my  doom. 
Thou  hast  not  made  my  life  so  sweet  to  me, 
That  I  the  King  should  greatly  care  to  live; 
For  thou  hast  spoilt  the  purpose  of  my  life. 
Bear  with  me  for  the  last  time  while  I  show, 
Ev'n  for  thy  sake,  the  sin  which  thou  hast  sinn'd. 
For  when  the  Roman  left  us,  and  their  law 
Relax'd  its  hold  upon  us,  and  the  ways 
Were  fill'd  with  rapine,  here  and  there  a  deed 
Of  prowess  done  redress' d  a  random  wrong. 
But  I  was  first  of  all  the  kings  who  drew 
The  Knighthood-errant  of  this  realm  and  all 

[  222  ] 


GUINEVERE 

The  realms  together  under  me,  their  Head, 

In  that  fair  Order  of  my  Table  Round, 

A  glorious  company,  the  flower  of  men, 

To  serve  as  model  for  the  mighty  world, 

And  be  the  fair  beginning  of  a  time. 

I  made  them  lay  their  hands  in  mine  and  swear 

To  reverence  the  King,  as  if  he  were 

Their  conscience,  and  their  conscience  as  their  King, 

To  break  the  heathen  and  uphold  the  Christ, 

To  ride  abroad  redressing  human  wrongs, 

To  speak  no  slander,  no,  nor  listen  to  it, 

To  honour  his  own  word  as  if  his  God's, 

To  lead  sweet  lives  in  purest  chastity, 

To  love  one  maiden  only,  cleave  to  her, 

And  worship  her  by  years  of  noble  deeds, 

Until  they  won  her;  for  indeed  I  knew 

Of  no  more  subtle  master  under  heaven 

Than  is  the  maiden  passion  for  a  maid, 

Not  only  to  keep  down  the  base  in  man, 

But  teach  high  thought,  and  amiable  words 

And  courtliness,  and  the  desire  of  fame, 

And  love  of  truth,  and  all  that  makes  a  man. 

And  all  this  throve  before  I  wedded  thee, 

Believing,  "lo  mine  helpmate,  one  to  feel 

My  purpose  and  rejoicing  in  my  joy." 

Then  came  thy  shameful  sin  with  Lancelot; 

Then  came  the  sin  of  Tristram  and  Isolt ; 

Then  others,  following  these  my  mightiest  knights, 

And  drawing  foul  ensample  from  fair  names, 

Sinn'd  also,  till  the  loathsome  opposite 

Of  all  my  heart  had  destined  did  obtain, 

[  223  ] 


SELECTIONS    FROM   EPIC    POEMS 

And  all  thro'  thee !  so  that  this  life  of  mine 

I  guard  as  God's  high  gift  from  scathe  and  wrong, 

Not  greatly  care  to  lose;  but  rather  think 

How  sad  it  were  for  Arthur,  should  he  live, 

To  sit  once  more  within  his  lonely  hall, 

And  miss  the  wonted  number  of  my  knights, 

And  miss  to  hear  high  talk  of  noble  deeds 

As  in  the  golden  days  before  thy  sin. 

For  which  of  us,  who  might  be  left,  could  speak 

Of  the  pure  heart,  nor  seem  to  glance  at  thee? 

And  in  thy  bowers  of  Camelot  or  of  Usk 

Thy  shadow  still  would  glide  from  room  to  room, 

And  I  should  evermore  be  vext  with  thee 

In  hanging  robe  or  vacant  ornament, 

Or  ghostly  footfall  echoing  on  the  stair. 

For  think  not,  tho'  thou  wouldst  not  love  thy  lord, 

Thy  lord  has  wholly  lost  his  love  for  thee. 

I  am  not  made  of  so  slight  elements. 

Yet  must  I  leave  thee,  woman,  to  thy  shame. 

I  hold  that  man  the  worst  of  public  foes 

Who  either  for  his  own  or  children's  sake, 

To  save  his  blood  from  scandal,  lets  the  wife 

Whom  he  knows  false,  abide  and  rule  the  house: 

For  being  thro'  his  cowardice  allow'd 

Her  station,  taken  everywhere  for  pure, 

She  like  a  new  disease,  unknown  to  men, 

Creeps,  no  precaution  used,  among  the  crowd, 

Makes  wicked  lightnings  of  her  eyes,  and  saps 

The  fealty  of  our  friends,  and  stirs  the  pulse 

With  devil's  leaps,  and  poisons  half  the  young. 

Worst  of  the  worst  were  that  man  he  that  reigns! 

[  224  ] 


GUINEVERE 

Better  the  King's  waste  hearth  and  aching  heart 
Than  thou  reseated  in  thy  place  of  light, 
The  mockery  of  my  people,  and  their  bane.' 

He  paused,  and  in  the  pause  she  crept  an  inch 
Nearer,  and  laid  her  hands  about  his  feet. 
Far  off  a  solitary  trumpet  blew. 
Then  waiting  by  the  doors  the  warhorse  neigh'd 
As  at  a  friend's  voice,  and  he  spake  again: 

'Yet  think  not  that  I  come  to  urge  thy  crimes, 
I  did  not  come  to  curse  thee,  Guinevere, 
I,  whose  vast  pity  almost  makes  me  die 
To  see  thee,  laying  there  thy  golden  head, 
My  pride  in  happier  summers,  at  my  feet. 
The  wrath  which  forced  my  thoughts  on  that  fierce  law, 
The  doom  of  treason  and  the  flaming  death, 
(When  first  I  learnt  thee  hidden  here),  is  past. 
The  pang — which  while  I  weigh'd  thy  heart  with  one 
Too  wholly  true  to  dream  untruth  in  thee, 
Made  my  tears  burn — is  also  past — in  part. 
And  all  is  past,  the  sin  is  sinn'd,  and  I, 
Lo!  I  forgive  thee,  as  Eternal  God 
Forgives:  do  thou  for  thine  own  soul  the  rest. 
But  how  to  take  last  leave  of  all  I  loved? 

0  golden  hair,  with  which  I  used  to  play 
Not  knowing!  O  imperial -moulded  form, 
And  beauty  such  as  never  woman  wore, 
Until  it  came  a  kingdom's  curse  with  thee — 

1  cannot  touch  thy  lips,  they  are  not  mine, 

But  Lancelot's:  nay,  they  never  were  the  King's. 
I  cannot  take  thy  hand;  that  too  is  flesh, 
[  226  ] 


SELECTIONS   FROM    EPIC    POEMS 

And  in  the  flesh  thou  hast  sinn'd ;  and  mine  own  flesh, 

Here  looking  down  on  thine  polluted,  cries 

"I  loathe  thee:"  yet  not  less,  O  Guinevere, 

For  I  was  ever  virgin  save  for  thee, 

My  love  thro'  flesh  hath  wrought  into  my  life 

So  far,  that  my  doom  is,  I  love  thee  still. 

Let  no  man  dream  but  that  I  love  thee  still. 

Perchance,  and  so  thou  purify  thy  soul, 

And  so  thou  lean  on  our  fair  father  Christ, 

Hereafter  in  that  world  where  all  are  pure 

We  two  may  meet  before  high  God,  and  thou 

Wilt  spring  to  me,  and  claim  me  thine,  and  know 

I  am  thine  husband  —  not  a  smaller  soul, 

Nor  Lancelot,  nor  another.  Leave  me  that, 

I  charge  thee,  my  last  hope.  Now  must  I  hence. 

Thro'  the  thick  night  I  hear  the  trumpet  blow: 

They  summon  me  their  King  to  lead  mine  hosts 

Far  down  to  that  great  battle  in  the  west, 

Where  I  must  strike  against  the  man  they  call 

My  sister's  son  —  no  kin  of  mine,  who  leagues 

With  Lords  of  the  WThite  Horse,  heathen,  and  knights, 

Traitors  —  and  strike  him  dead,  and  meet  myself 

Death,  or  I  know  not  what  mysterious  doom. 

And  thou  remaining  here  wilt  learn  the  event; 

But  hither  shall  I  never  come  again, 

Never  lie  by  thy  side;  see  thee  no  more — 

Farewell!' 

And  while  she  grovell'd  at  his  feet, 
She  felt  the  King's  breath  wander  o'er  her  neck, 
And  in  the  darkness  o'er  her  fallen  head, 
Perceived  the  waving  of  his  hands  that  blest. 
[  226  ] 


GUINEVERE 

Then,  listening  till  those  armed  steps  were  gone, 
Rose  the  pale  Queen,  and  in  her  anguish  found 
The  casement:  fperadventure,'  so  she  thought, 
'  If  I  might  see  his  face,  and  not  be  seen.' 
And  lo,  he  sat  on  horseback  at  the  door! 
And  near  him  the  sad  nuns  with  each  a  light 
Stood,  and  he  gave  them  charge  about  the  Queen, 
To  guard  and  foster  her  for  evermore. 
And  while  he  spake  to  these  his  helm  was  lower' d, 
To  which  for  crest  the  golden  dragon  clung 
Of  Britain ;  so  she  did  not  see  the  face, 
Which  then  was  as  an  angel's,  but  she  saw, 
Wet  with  the  mists  and  smitten  by  the  lights, 
The  Dragon  of  the  great  Pendragonship 
Blaze,  making  all  the  night  a  steam  of  fire. 
And  even  then  he  turn'd;  and  more  and  more 
The  moony  vapour  rolling  round  the  King, 
Who  seem'd  the  phantom  of  a  Giant  in  it, 
Enwound  him  fold  by  fold,  and  made  him  gray 
And  grayer,  till  himself  became  as  mist 
Before  her,  moving  ghostlike  to  his  doom. 

Then  she  stretch'd  out  her  arms  and  cried  aloud 
'O  Arthur!'  there  her  voice  brake  suddenly, 
Then — as  a  stream  that  spouting  from  a  cliff 
Fails  in  mid-air,  but  gathering  at  the  base 
Re-makes  itself,  and  flashes  down  the  vale — 
Went  on  in  passionate  utterance: 

'Gone  —  my  lord! 

Gone  thro'  my  sin  to  slay  and  to  be  slain! 
And  he  forgave  me,  and  I  could  not  speak. 
[227] 


SELECTIONS    FROM    EPIC    POEMS 

Farewell?  I  should  have  answer'd  his  farewell. 

His  mercy  choked  me.  Gone,  my  lord  the  King, 

My  own  true  lord!  how  dare  I  call  him  mine? 

The  shadow  of  another  cleaves  to  me, 

And  makes  me  one  pollution:  he,  the  King, 

Call'd  me  polluted:  shall  I  kill  myself? 

What  help  in  that?  I  cannot  kill  my  sin, 

If  soul  be  soul ;  nor  can  I  kill  my  shame ; 

No,  nor  by  living  can  I  live  it  down. 

The  days  will  grow  to  weeks,  the  weeks  to  months, 

The  months  will  add  themselves  and  make  the  years, 

The  years  will  roll  into  the  centuries, 

And  mine  will  ever  be  a  name  of  scorn. 

I  must  not  dwell  on  that  defeat  of  fame. 

Let  the  world  be ;  that  is  but  of  the  world. 

What  else?  what  hope?  I  think  there  was  a  hope, 

Except  he  mock'd  me  when  he  spake  of  hope; 

His  hope  he  call'd  it; -but  he  never  mocks, 

For  mockery  is  the  fume  of  little  hearts. 

And  blessed  be  the  King,  who  hath  forgiven 

My  wickedness  to  him,  and  left  me  hope 

That  in  mine  own  heart  I  can  live  down  sin 

And  be  his  mate  hereafter  in  the  heavens 

Before  high  God.  Ah,  great  and  gentle  lord, 

Who  wast,  as  is  the  conscience  of  a  saint 

Among  his  warring  senses,  to  thy  knights  — 

To  whom  my  false  voluptuous  pride,  that  took 

Full  easily  all  impressions  from  below, 

Would  not  look  up,  or  half-despised  the  height 

To  which  I  would  not  or  I  could  not  climb — 

I  thought  I  could  not  breathe  in  that  fine  air 

[  228  ] 


GUINEVERE 

That  pure  severity  of  perfect  light — 
I  yearn'd  for  warmth  and  colour  which  I  found 
In  Lancelot — now  I  see  thee  what  thou  art, 
Thou  art  the  highest  and  most  human  too, 
Not  Lancelot,  nor  another.  Is  there  none 
Will  tell  the  King  I  love  him  tho'  so  late? 
Now — ere  he  goes  to  the  great  Battle?  none: 
Myself  must  tell  him  in  that  purer  life, 
But  now  it  were  too  daring.  Ah  my  God, 
What  might  I  not  have  made  of  thy  fair  world, 
Had  I  but  loved  thy  highest  creature  here? 
It  was  my  duty  to  have  loved  the  highest: 
It  surely  was  my  profit  had  I  known: 
It  would  have  been  my  pleasure  had  I  seen. 
We  needs  must  love  the  highest  when  we  see  it, 
Not  Lancelot,  nor  another.' 

Here  her  hand 

Grasp'd,  made  her  vail  her  eyes:  she  look'd  and  saw 
The  novice,  weeping,  suppliant,  and  said  to  her, 
'Yea,  little  maid,  for  am  /  not  forgiven?' 
Then  glancing  up  beheld  the  holy  nuns 
All  round  her,  weeping;  and  her  heart  was  loosed 
Within  her,  and  she  wept  with  these  and  said, 

fYe  know  me  then,  that  wicked  one,  who  broke 
The  vast  design  and  purpose  of  the  King. 

0  shut  me  round  with  narrowing  nunnery-walls, 
Meek  maidens,  from  the  voices  crying  "shame." 

1  must  not  scorn  myself:  he  loves  me  still. 
Let  no  one  dream  but  that  he  loves  me  still. 
So  let  me,  if  you  do  not  shudder  at  me, 

[  229  ] 


SELECTIONS    FHOM    EPIC    POEMS 

Nor  shun  to  call  me  sister,  dwell  with  you; 

Wear  black  and  white,  and  be  a  nun  like  you, 

Fast  with  your  fasts,  not  feasting  with  your  feasts; 

Grieve  with  your  griefs,  not  grieving  at  your  joys, 

But  not  rejoicing;  mingle  with  your  rites; 

Pray  and  be  pray'd  for;  lie  before  your  shrines; 

Do  each  low  office  of  your  holy  house ; 

Walk  your  dim  cloister,  and  distribute  dole 

To  poor  sick  people,  richer  in  His  eyes 

Who  ransom'd  us,  and  haler  too  than  I ; 

And  treat  their  loathsome  hurts  and  heal  mine  own; 

And  so  wear  out  in  almsdeed  and  in  prayer 

The  sombre  close  of  that  voluptuous  day, 

Which  wrought  the  ruin  of  my  lord  the  King.' 

She  said:  they  took  her  to  themselves;  and  she 
Still  hoping,  fearing,  fis  it  yet  too  late?' 
Dwelt  with  them,  till  in  time  their  Abbess  died. 
Then  she,  for  her  good  deeds  and  her  pure  life, 
And  for  the  power  of  ministration  in  her, 
And  likewise  for  the  high  rank  she  had  borne, 
Was  chosen  Abbess,  there,  an  Abbess,  lived 
For  three  brief  years,  and  there,  an  Abbess,  past 
To  where  beyond  these  voices  there  is  peace. 


MORTE    D'ARTHUR 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  roll'd 
Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter  sea; 
Until  King  Arthur's  table,  man  by  man, 
Had  fallen  in  Lyonnesse  about  their  Lord, 
[  230  ] 


MORTE    D  ARTHUR 

King  Arthur:  then,  because  his  wound  was  deep, 
The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him, 
Sir  Bedivere,  the  last  of  all  his  knights, 
And  bore  him  to  a  chapel  nigh  the  field, 
A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross, 
That  stood  on  a  dark  strait  of  barren  land. 
On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 
Lay  a  great  water,  and  the  moon  was  full. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere: 
'The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 
The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famous  knights 
Whereof  this  world  holds  record.  Such  a  sleep 
They  sleep — the  men  I  loved.  I  think  that  we 
Shall  never  more,  at  any  future  time, 
Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly  deeds, 
Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the  halls 
Of  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  were. 
I  perish  by  this  people  which  I  made, — 
Tho'  Merlin  sware  that  I  should  come  again 
To  rule  once  more — but  let  what  will  be,  be, 
I  am  so  deeply  smitten  thro'  the  helm 
That  without  help  I  cannot  last  till  morn. 
Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  Excalibur, 
Which  was  my  pride:  for  thou  rememberest  how 
In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon,  an  arm 
Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
Holding  the  sword — and  how  I  row'd  across 
And  took  it,  and  have  worn  it,  like  a  king: 
And,  wheresoever  I  am  sung  or  told 
In  aftertime,  this  also  shall  be  known: 
[231  ] 


SELECTIONS    FllOM    EPIC    POEMS 

But  now  delay  not:  take  Excalibur, 

And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle  mere: 

Watch  what  thou  seest,  and  lightly  bring  me  word.' 

To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
'It  is  not  meet,  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee  thus, 
Aidless,  alone,  and  smitten  thro'  the  helm. 
A  little  thing  may  harm  a  wounded  man. 
Yet  I  thy  hest  will  all  perform  at  full, 
Watch  what  I  see,  and  lightly  bring  thee  word.' 

So  saying,  from  the  ruin'd  shrine  he  stept 
And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of  tombs, 
Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient  men, 
Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea-wind  sang 
Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.  He,  stepping  down 
By  zig-zag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointed  rock, 
Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 

There  drew  he  forth  the  brand  Excalibur, 
And  o'er  him,  drawing  it,  the  winter  moon, 
Brightening  the  skirts  of  a  long  cloud,  ran  forth 
And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against  the  hilt: 
For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  diamond  sparks, 
Myriads  of  topaz-lights,  and  jacinth-work 
Of  subtlest  jeAvellery.  He  gazed  so  long 
That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled,  as  he  stood, 
This  way  and  that  dividing  the  swift  mind, 
In  act  to  throw:  but  at  the  last  it  seem'd 
Better  to  leave  Excalibur  conceal'd 
There  in  the  many-knotted  waterflags, 
That  whistled  stiff  and  dry  about  the  marge. 
So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded  King. 
[  232  ] 


MORTE   D  ARTHUR 

s 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere: 
'Hast  thou  perform'd  my  mission  which  I  gave? 
What  is  it  thou  hast  seen?  or  what  hast  heard?' 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
'I  heard  the  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds, 
And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the  crag.' 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint  and  pale: 
'Thou  hast  be  tray 'd  thy  nature  and  thy  name, 
Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  beseem' d 
Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight: 
For  surer  sign  had  follow'd,  either  hand, 
Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  mere. 
This  is  a  shameful  thing  for  men  to  lie. 
Yet  now,  I  charge  thee,  quickly  go  again 
As  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the  thing 
I  bade  thee,  watch,  and  lightly  bring  me  word.' 

Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second  time 
Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside  the  mere, 
Counting  the  dewy  pebbles,  fix'd  in  thought; 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the  hilt, 
How  curiously  and  strangely  chased,  he  smote 
His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud, 

'And  if  indeed  I  cast  the  brand  away, 
Surely  a  precious  thing,  one  worthy  note, 
Should  thus  be  lost  for  ever  from  the  earth, 
Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes  of  many  men. 
What  good  should  follow  this,  if  this  were  done  ? 
What  harm,  undone?  deep  harm  to  disobey, 
[  233  ] 


SELECTIONS    FROM    EPIC    POEMS 

Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 

Were  it  well  to  obey,  then,  if  a  king  demand 

An  act  unprofitable,  against  himself? 

The  King  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what  he  does. 

What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 

Should  be  to  aftertime,  but  empty  breath 

And  rumours  of  a  doubt?  but  were  this  kept, 

Stored  in  some  treasure-house  of  mighty  kings, 

Some  one  might  show  it  at  a  joust  of  arms, 

Saying,  "King  Arthur's  sword,  Excalibur, 

Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the  Lake. 

Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in  the  deeps 

Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills." 

So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  the  aftertime 

To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence. 

But  now  much  honour  and  much  fame  were  lost.' 

So  spake  he,  clouded  with  his  own  conceit, 
And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time, 
And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the  wounded  King. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  breathing  heavily: 
'What  is  it  thou  hast  seen?  or  what  hast  heard?' 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
'I  heard  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag, 
And  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds.' 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  much  in  wrath: 
'Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
Unknightly,  traitor-hearted  !  Woe  is  me ! 
Authority  forgets  a  dying  king, 
C  234  ] 


MORTE    D  ARTHUR 

Laid  widow'd  of  the  power  in  his  eye 

That  bow'd  the  will.  I  see  thee  what  thou  art, 

For  thou,  the  latest-left  of  all  my  knights, 

In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all, 

Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  precious  hilt; 

Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl 

Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 

Yet,  for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice, 

And  the  third  time  may  prosper,  get  thee  hence: 

But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 

I  will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my  hands.' 

Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere,  and  ran, 
And,  leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly,  plunged 
Among  the  bulrush-beds,  and  clutch'd  the  sword, 
And  strongly  wheel' d  and  threw  it.  The  great  brand 
Made  lightnings  in  the  splendour  of  the  moon, 
And  flashing  round  and  round,  and  whirl'd  in  an  arch, 
Shot  like  a  streamer  of  the  northern  morn, 
Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  winter  shock 
By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern  sea. 
So  flash'd  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur: 
But  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an  arm 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere. 
And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the  King. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  drawing  thicker  breath: 
fNow  see  I  by  thine  eyes  that  this  is  done. 
Speak  out:  what  is  it  thou  hast  heard,  or  seen?' 

[  235  ] 


SELECTIONS    FROM    EPIC    POEMS 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
'Sir  King,  I  closed  mine  eyelids,  lest  the  gems 
Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I  never  saw, 
Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  I  die, 
Not  tho'  I  live  three  lives  of  mortal  men, 
So  great  a  miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 
Then  with  both  hands  I  flung  him,  wheeling  him; 
But  when  I  look'd  again,  behold  an  arm, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
That  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere." 

And  answer  made  King  Arthur,  breathing  hard: 
'My  end  draws  nigh;  't  is  time  that  I  were  gone. 
Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive  my  weight, 
And  bear  me  to  the  margin;  yet  I  fear 
My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I  shall  die.' 

So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he  half  rose, 
Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his  arm, 
And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue  eyes 
As  in  a  picture.  Him  Sir  Bedivere 
Remorsefully  regarded  thro'  his  tears, 
And  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found  not  words; 
Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on  one  knee, 
O'er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  languid  hands, 
And  rising  bore  him  thro'  the  place  of  tombs. 

But,  as  he  walk'd,  King  Arthur  panted  hard, 
Like  one  that  feels  a  nightmare  on  his  bed 
When  all  the  house  is  mute.  So  sigh'd  the  King, 
Muttering  and  murmuring  at  his  ear,  ' Quick,  quick! 
[  236  ] 


MORTE    D  ARTHUR 

I  fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I  shall  die.' 

But  the  other  swiftly  strode  from  ridge  to  ridge, 

Clothed  with  his  breath,  and  looking,  as  he  walk'd, 

Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 

He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a  cry 

Before.  His  own  thought  drove  him,  like  a  goad. 

Dry  clash'd  his  harness  in  the  icy  caves 

And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left  and  right 

The  bare  black  cliff  clang'd  round  him,  as  he  based 

His  feet  on  juts  of  slippery  crag  that  rang 

Sharp-smitten  with  the  dint  of  armed  heels — 

And  on  a  sudden,  lo!  the  level  lake, 

And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter  moon. 

Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a  dusky  barge, 
Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stem  to  stern, 
Beneath  them;  and  descending  they  were  ware 
That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with  stately  forms 
Black-stoled,  black-hooded,  like  a  dream — by  these 
Three  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold — and  from  them 

rose 

A  cry  that  shiver'd  to  the  tingling  stars, 
And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony 
Of  lamentation,  like  a  wind,  that  shrills 
All  night  in  a  waste  land,  where  no  one  comes, 
Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of  the  world. 

Then  murmur'd  Arthur,  '  Place  me  in  the  barge,' 
And  to  the  barge  they  came.  There  those  three  Queens 
Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the  King,  and  wept. 
But  she,  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all 
And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap, 
[  237  ] 


SELECTIONS    FROM    EPIC    POEMS 

And  loosed  the  shatter'd  casque.,  and  chafed  his  hands, 
And  call'd  him  by  his  name,  complaining  loud, 
And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  his  brow 
Striped  with  dark  blood:  for  all  his  face  was  white 
And  colourless,  and  like  the  wither' d  moon 
Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the  springing  east ; 
And  all  his  greaves  and  cuisses  dash'd  with  drops 
Of  onset;  and  the  light  and  lustrous  curls — 
That  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising  sun 
High  from  the  dais-throne — were  parch'd  with  dust; 
Or,  clotted  into  points  and  hanging  loose, 
Mix'd  with   the   knightly   growth   that  fringed  his 

lips. 

So  like  a  shatter'd  column  lay  the  King; 
Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance  in  rest, 
From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tournament, 
Shot  thro'  the  lists  at  Camelot,  and  charged 
Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 

Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere, 
' Ah!  my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall  I  go? 
Where  shall  I  hide  my  forehead  and  my  eyes? 
For  now  I  see  the  true  old  times  are  dead, 
When  every  morning  brought  a  noble  chance, 
And  every  chance  brought  out  a  noble  knight. 
Such  times  have  been  not  since  the  light  that  led 
The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 
But  now  the  whole  ROUND  TABLE  is  dissolved 
Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty  world; 
And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companionless, 
And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and  the  years, 
Among  new  men,  strange  faces,  other  minds.' 
[  238  ] 


MORTE    D  ARTHUR 

And  slowly  answered  Arthur  from  the  barge: 
'The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place  to  new, 
And  God  fulfils  Himself  in  many  ways, 
Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the  world. 
Comfort  thyself:  what  comfort  is  in  me? 
I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I  have  done 
May  He  within  Himself  make  pure !  but  thou, 
If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face  again, 
Pray  for  my  soul.  More  things  are  wrought  by  prayer 
Than  this  world  dreams  of.  Wherefore,  let  thy  voice 
Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and  day. 
For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or  goats 
That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the  brain, 
If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of  prayer 
Both  for  themselves  and  those  who  call  them  friend? 
For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every  way 
Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of  God. 
But  now  farewell.  I  am  going  a  long  way 
With  these  thou  see'st — if  indeed  I  go  — 
(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a  doubt) 
To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion ; 
Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow, 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly;  but  it  lies 
Deep-meadow'd,  happy,  fair  with  orchard-lawns 
And  bowery  hollows  crown'd  with  summer  sea, 
Where  I  will  heal  me  of  my  grievous  wound.' 

So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar  and  sail 
Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full-breasted  swan 
That,  fluting  a  wild  carol  ere  her  death, 
Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes  the  flood 
With  swarthy  webs.  Long  stood  Sir  Bedivere 
[  239  ] 


SELECTIONS    FROM    EPIC    POEMS 

Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 

Look'd  one  black  dot  against  the  verge  of  dawn, 

And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away. 


[  240  ] 


IV 
PERSONAL   AND    PHILOSOPHIC   POEMS 


OF   THE    POET   AND    HIS   ART 


THE    POET 

THE  poet  in  a  golden  clime  was  born, 

With  golden  stars  above; 

Dower'd  with  the  hate  of  hate,  the  scorn  of  scorn, 
The  love  of  love. 

He  saw  thro'  life  and  death,  thro'  good  and  ill, 

He  saw  thro'  his  own  soul. 
The  marvel  of  the  everlasting  will, 
An  open  scroll, 

Before  him  lay:  with  echoing  feet  he  threaded 

The  secretest  walks  of  fame : 
The  viewless  arrows  of  his  thoughts  were  headed 
And  wing'd  with  flame, 

Like  Indian  reeds  blown  from  his  silver  tongue, 

And  of  so  fierce  a  flight, 
From  Calpe  unto  Caucasus  they  sung, 
Filling  with  light 

And  vagrant  melodies  the  winds  which  bore 

Them  earthward  till  they  lit; 
Then,  like  the  arrow-seeds  of  the  field  flower, 
The  fruitful  wit 

Cleaving,  took  root,  and  springing  forth  anew 

Where'er  they  fell,  behold, 
Like  to  the  mother  plant  in  semblance,  grew 
A  flower  all  gold, 

[  243  ] 


OF    THE    POET    AND    HIS    ART 

And  bravely  furnish'd  all  abroad  to  fling 

The  winged  shafts  of  truth, 

To  throng  with  stately  blooms  the  breathing  spring 
Of  Hope  and  Youth. 

So  many  minds  did  gird  their  orbs  with  beams, 

Tho'  one  did  fling  the  fire. 
Heaven  flow'd  upon  the  soul  in  many  dreams 
Of  high  desire. 

Thus  truth  was  multiplied  on  truth,  the  world 

Like  one  great  garden  show'd, 
And  thro'  the  wreaths  of  floating  dark  upcurl'd, 
Rare  sunrise  flow'd. 

And  Freedom  rear'd  in  that  august  sunrise 

Her  beautiful  bold  brow, 
When  rites  and  forms  before  his  burning  eyes 
Melted  like  snow. 

There  was  no  blood  upon  her  maiden  robes 

Sunn'd  by  those  orient  skies; 
But  round  about  the  circles  of  the  globes 
Of  her  keen  eyes 

And  in  her  raiment's  hem  was  traced  in  flame 

WISDOM,  a  name  to  shake 
All  evil  dreams  of  power — a  sacred  name. 
And  when  she  spake, 

Her  words  did  gather  thunder  as  they  ran, 

And  as  the  lightning  to  the  thunder 
Which  follows  it,  riving  the  spirit  of  man, 
Making  earth  wonder, 
[  244  ] 


THE    POETS    SONG 

So  was  their  meaning  to  her  words.  No  sword 

Of  wrath  her  right  arm  whirl'd, 
But  one  poor  poet's  scroll,  and  with  his  word 
She  shook  the  world. 


THE    POET'S   SONG 

THE  rain  had  fallen,  the  Poet  arose, 

He  pass'd  by  the  town  and  out  of  the  street, 
A  light  wind  blew  from  the  gates  of  the  sun, 

And  waves  of  shadow  went  over  the  wheat, 
And  he  sat  him  down  in  a  lonely  place, 

And  chanted  a  melody  loud  and  sweet, 
That  made  the  wild-swan  pause  in  her  cloud, 

And  the  lark  drop  down  at  his  feet. 

The  swallow  stopt  as  he  hunted  the  fly, 

The  snake  slipt  under  a  spray, 
The  wild  hawk  stood  with  the  down  on  his  beak, 

And  stared,  with  his  foot  on  the  prey, 
And  the  nightingale  thought,'  I  have  sung  many  songs, 

But  never  a  one  so  gay, 
For  he  sings  of  what  the  world  will  be 

When  the  years  have  died  away.' 


TO 


WITH   THE    FOLLOWING    POEM 

I  SEND  you  here  a  sort  of  allegory, 
(For  you  will  understand  it)  of  a  soul, 
A  sinful  soul  possess'd  of  many  gifts, 
[  246  ] 


OF   THE    POET    AND    HIS    ART 

A  spacious  garden  full  of  flowering  weeds, 

A  glorious  Devil,  large  in  heart  and  brain, 

That  did  love  Beauty  only  (Beauty  seen 

In  all  varieties  of  mould  and  mind), 

And  Knowledge  for  its  beauty ;  or  if  Good, 

Good  only  for  its  beauty,  seeing  not 

That  Beauty,  Good,  and  Knowledge  are  three  sisters 

That  dote  upon -each  other,  friends  to  man, 

Living  together  under  the  same  roof, 

And  never  can  be  sunder'd  without  tears. 

And  he  that  shuts  Love  out,  in  turn  shall  be 

Shut  out  from  Love,  and  on  her  threshold  lie, 

Howling  in  outer  darkness.  Not  for  this 

Was  common  clay  ta'en  from  the  common  earth 

Moulded  by  God,  and  temper'd  with  the  tears 

Of  angels  to  the  perfect  shape  of  man. 


THE    PALACE    OF    ART 

I  BUILT  my  soul  a  lordly  pleasure-house, 

Wherein  at  ease  for  aye  to  dwell. 
I  said,  fO  Soul,  make  merry  and  carouse, 
Dear  soul,  for  all  is  well.' 

A  huge  crag-platform,  smooth  as  burnish'd  brass 

I  chose.  The  ranged  ramparts  bright 
From  level  meadow-bases  of  deep  grass 
Suddenly  scaled  the  light. 

Thereon  I  built  it  firm.  Of  ledge  or  shelf 
The  rock  rose  clear,  or  winding  stair. 
[246  ] 


THE    PALACE    OF   ART 

My  soul  would  live  alone  unto  herself 
In  her  high  palace  there. 

And  'While  the  world  runs  round  and  round/  I  said, 

1  Reign  thou  apart,  a  quiet  king, 
Still  as,  while  Saturn  whirls,  his  stedfast  shade 
Sleeps  on  his  luminous  ring.' 

To  which  my  soul  made  answer  readily: 

'Trust  me,  in  bliss  I  shall  abide 
In  this  great  mansion,  that  is  built  for  me, 
So  royal-rich  and  wide.' 


Four  courts  I  made,  East,  West  and  South  and  North, 

In  each  a  squared  lawn,  wherefrom 
The  golden  gorge  of  dragons  spouted  forth 
A  flood  of  fountain-foam. 

And  round  the  cool  green  courts  there  ran  a  row 

Of  cloisters,  branch'd  like  mighty  woods, 
Echoing  all  night  to  that  sonorous  flow 
Of  spouted  fountain-floods. 

And  round  the  roofs  a  gilded  gallery 

That  lent  broad  verge  to  distant  lands, 
Far  as  the  wild  swan  wings,  to  where  the  sky 
Dipt  down  to  sea  and  sands. 

From  those  four  jets  four  currents  in  one  swell 
Across  the  mountain  stream'd  below 
[  247] 


OF    THE    POET   AND    HIS   ART 

In  misty  folds,  that  floating  as  they  fell 
Lit  up  a  torrent-bow. 

And  high  on  every  peak  a  statue  seem'd 

To  hang  on  tiptoe,  tossing. up 
A  cloud  of  incense  of  all  odour  steam'd 
From  out  a  golden  cup. 

So  that  she  thought,  'And  who  shall  gaze  upon 

My  palace  with  unblinded  eyes, 
While  this  great  bow  will  waver  in  the  sun, 
And  that  sweet  incense  rise?' 

For  that  sweet  incense  rose  and  never  fail'd, 

And,  while  day  sank  or  mounted  higher, 
The  light  aerial  gallery,  golden-rail'd, 
Burnt  like  a  fringe  of  fire. 

Likewise  the  deep-set  windows,  stain'd  and  traced, 

Would  seem  slow-flaming  crimson  fires 
From  shadow'd  grots  of  arches  interlaced, 
And  tipt  with  frost-like  spires. 


Full  of  long-sounding  corridors  it  was, 

That  over-vaulted  grateful  gloom, 
Thro'  which  the  livelong  day  my  soul  did  pass, 
Well-pleased,  from  room  to  room. 

Full  of  great  rooms  and  small  the  palace  stood, 
All  various,  each  a  perfect  whole 
[  248  ] 


THE    PALACE    OF   ART 

From  living  Nature,  fit  for  every  mood 
And  change  of  my  still  soul. 

For  some  were  hung  with  arras  green  and  blue, 

Showing  a  gaudy  summer-morn, 
Where  with  puff'd  cheek  the  belted  hunter  blew 
His  wreathed  bugle-horn. 

One  seem'd  all  dark  and  red — a  tract  of  sand, 

And  some  one  pacing  there  alone, 
Who  paced  for  ever  in  a  glimmering  land, 
Lit  with  a  low  large  moon. 

One  show'd  an  iron  coast  and  angry  waves. 
You  seem'd  to  hear  them  climb  and  fall 
And  roar  rock-thwarted  under  bellowing  caves, 
Beneath  the  windy  wall. 

And  one,  a  full-fed  river  winding  slow 

By  herds  upon  an  endless  plain, 
The  ragged  rims  of  thunder  brooding  low, 
With  shadow-streaks  of  rain. 

And  one,  the  reapers  at  their  sultry  toil. 

In  front  they  bound  the  sheaves.  Behind 
Were  realms  of  upland,  prodigal  in  oil, 
And  hoary  to  the  wind. 

And  one  a  foreground  black  with  stones  and  slags, 

Beyond,  a  line  of  heights,  and  higher 
All  barr'd  with  long  white  cloud  the  scornful  crags, 
And  highest,  snow  and  fire. 
[  249  ] 


OF    THE    POET   AND    HIS    ART 

And  one,  an  English  home — gray  twilight  pour'd 

On  dewy  pastures,  dewy  trees, 
Softer  than  sleep — all  things  in  order  stored, 
A  haunt  of  ancient  Peace. 

Nor  these  alone,  but  every  landscape  fair, 

As  fit  for  every  mood  of  mind, 
Or  gay,  or  grave,  or  sweet,  or  stern,  was  there 
Not  less  than  truth  design* d. 


Or  the  maid-mother  by  a  crucifix, 

In  tracts  of  pasture  sunny-warm, 
Beneath  branch -work  of  costly  sardonyx 
Sat  smiling,  babe  in  arm. 

Or  in  a  clear- wall' d  city  on  the  sea, 
Near  gilded  organ-pipes,  her  hair 
Wound  with  white  roses,  slept  St.  Cecily; 
An  angel  look'd  at  her. 

Or  thronging  all  one  porch  of  Paradise 

A  group  of  Houris  bow'd  to  see 
The  dying  Islamite,  with  hands  and  eyes 
That  said,  We  wait  for  thee. 

Or  mythic  Uther's  deeply- wounded  son 

In  some  fair  space  of  sloping  greens 
Lay,  dozing  in  the  vale  of  Avalon, 
And  watch'd  by  weeping  queens. 
[  250] 


THE    PALACE    OF   ART 

Or  hollowing  one  hand  against  his  ear, 

To  list  a  foot-fall,  ere  he  saw 

The  wood-nymph,  stay'd  the  Ausonian  king  to  hear 
Of  wisdom  and  of  law. 

Or  over  hills  with  peaky  tops  engrail'd, 

And  many  a  tract  of  palm  and  rice, 
The  throne  of  Indian  Cama  slowly  sail'd 
A  summer  fann'd  with  spice. 

Or  sweet  Europa's  mantle  blew  unclasp'd, 
From  off  her  shoulder  backward  borne : 
From  one  hand  droop'd  a  crocus:  one  hand  grasp'd 
The  mild  bull's  golden  horn. 

Or  else  flush'd  Ganymede,  his  rosy  thigh 

Half-buried  in  the  Eagle's  down, 
Sole  as  a  flying  star  shot  thro'  the  sky 
Above  the  pillar'd  town. 

Nor  these  alone :  but  every  legend  fair 
Which  the  supreme  Caucasian  mind 
Carved  out  of  Nature  for  itself,  was  there, 
Not  less  than  life,  design'd. 


Then  in  the  towers  I  placed  great  bells  that  swung, 

Moved  of  themselves,  with  silver  sound ; 
And  with  choice  paintings  of  wise  men  I  hung 
The  royal  dais  round. 

[  261  ] 


OF   THE    POET   AND    HIS    ART 

For  there  was  Milton  like  a  seraph  strong, 
Beside  him  Shakespeare  bland  and  mild; 
And  there  the  world-worn  Dante  grasp'd  his  song, 
And  somewhat  grimly  smiled. 

And  there  the  Ionian  father  of  the  rest; 

A  million  wrinkles  carved  his  skin; 
A  hundred  winters  snow'd  upon  his  breast, 
From  cheek  and  throat  and  chin. 

Above,  the  fair  hall-ceiling  stately-set 

Many  an  arch  high  up  did  lift, 
And  angels  rising  and  descending  met 
With  interchange  of  gift. 

Below  was  all  mosaic  choicely  plann'd 

With  cycles  of  the  human  tale 
Of  this  wide  world,  the  times  of  every  land 
So  wrought,  they  will  not  fail. 

The  people  here,  a  beast  of  burden  slow, 

Toil'd  onward,  prick'd  with  goads  and  stings; 
Here  play'd,  a  tiger,  rolling  to  and  fro 
The  heads  and  crowns  of  kings ; 

Here  rose,  an  athlete,  strong  to  break  or  bind 

All  force  in  bonds  that  might  endure, 
And  here  once  more  like  some  sick  man  declined, 
And  trusted  any  cure. 

But  over  these  she  trod:  and  those  great  bells 
Began  to  chime.  She  took  her  throne: 
[  252  ] 


THE    PALACE    OF   ART 

She  sat  betwixt  the  shining  Oriels, 
To  sing  her  songs  alone. 

And  thro'  the  topmost  Oriels'  coloured  flame 

Two  godlike  faces  gazed  below; 
Plato  the  wise,  and  large-brow'd  Verulam, 
The  first  of  those  who  know. 

And  all  those  names,  that  in  their  motion  were 

Full-welling  fountain-heads  of  change, 
Betwixt  the  slender  shafts  were  blazon'd  fair 
In  diverse  raiment  strange: 

Thro'  which  the  lights,  rose,  amber,  emerald,  blue, 

Flush'd  in  her  temples  and  her  eyes, 
And  from  her  lips,  as  morn  from  Memnon,  drew 
Rivers  of  melodies. 

No  nightingale  delighteth  to  prolong 

Her  low  preamble  all  alone, 
More  than  my  soul  to  hear  her  echo'd  song 
Throb  thro'  the  ribbed  stone; 

Singing  and  murmuring  in  her  feastful  mirth, 

Joying  to  feel  herself  alive, 
Lord  over  Nature,  Lord  of  the  visible  earth, 
Lord  of  the  senses  five; 

Communing  with  herself:  'All  these  are  mine, 

And  let  the  world  have  peace  or  wars, 
'Tis  one  to  me.'  She — when  young  night  divine 
Crown'd  dying  day  with  stars, 
[253  ] 


OF   THE    POET   AND    HIS    ART 

Making  sweet  close  of  his  delicious  toils — 

Lit  light  in  wreaths  and  anadems, 
And  pure  quintessences  of  precious  oils 
In  hollow'd  moons  of  gems, 

To  mimic  heaven;  and  clapt  her  hands  and  cried, 

*  I  marvel  if  my  still  delight 
In  this  great  house  so  royal-rich,  and  wide, 
Be  flatter' d  to  the  height. 

'O  all  things  fair  to  sate  my  various  eyes! 

0  shapes  and  hues  that  please  me  well! 
O  silent  faces  of  the  Great  and  Wise, 

My  Gods,  with  whom  I  dwell! 

'O  God-like  isolation  which  art  mine, 

1  can  but  count  thee  perfect  gain, 

What  time  I  watch  the  darkening  droves  of  swine 
That  range  on  yonder  plain. 

'In  filthy  sloughs  they  roll  a  prurient  skin, 
They  graze  and  wallow,  breed  and  sleep; 
And  oft  some  brainless  devil  enters  in, 
And  drives  them  to  the  deep.' 

Then  of  the  moral  instinct  would  she  prate 

And  of  the  rising  from  the  dead, 
As  hers  by  right  of  full-accomplish'd  Fate ; 
And  at  the  last  she  said: 

'I  take  possession  of  man's  mind  and  deed. 
I  care  not  what  the  sects  may  brawl. 
[254  ] 


THE    PALACE    OF   ART 

I  sit  as  God  holding  no  form  of  creed, 
But  contemplating  all.' 


Full  oft  the  riddle  of  the  painful  earth 

Flash'd  thro'  her  as  she  sat  alone, 
Yet  not  the  less  held  she  her  solemn  mirth, 
And  intellectual  throne. 

And  so  she  throve  and  prosper'd :  so  three  years 

She  prosper'd:  on  the  fourth  she  fell, 
Like  Herod,  when  the  shout  was  in  his  ears, 
Struck  thro '  with  pangs  of  hell. 

Lest  she  should  fail  and  perish  utterly, 

God,  before  whom  ever  lie  bare 
The  abysmal  deeps  of  Personality, 
Plagued  her  with  sore  despair. 

When  she  would  think,  where'er  she  turn'd  her  sight 

The  airy  hand  confusion  wrought, 

Wrote,  (Mene,  mene,'  and  divided  quite 

The  kingdom  of  her  thought. 

Deep  dread  and  loathing  of  her  solitude 

Fell  on  her,  from  which  mood  was  born 
Scorn  of  herself;  again,  from  out  that  mood 
Laughter  at  her  self-scorn. 

'What!  is  not  this  my  place  of  strength,'  she  said, 
'My  spacious  mansion  built  for  me, 
[  255  ] 


OF    THE    POET    AND    HIS    ART 

Whereof  the  strong  foundation-stones  were  laid 
Since  my  first  memory?' 

But  in  dark  corners  of  her  palace  stood 

Uncertain  shapes;  and  unawares 
On  white-eyed  phantasms  weeping  tears  of  blood, 
And  horrible  nightmares, 

And  hollow  shades,  enclosing  hearts  of  flame, 

And,  with  dim  fretted  foreheads  all, 
On  corpses  three-months-old  at  noon  she  came, 
That  stood  against  the  wall. 

A  spot  of  dull  stagnation,  without  light 

Or  power  of  movement,  seem'd  my  soul, 
'Mid  onward-sloping  motions  infinite 
Making  for  one  sure  goal. 

A  still  salt  pool,  lock'd  in  with  bars  of  sand, 

Left  on  the  shore ;  that  hears  all  night 
The  plunging  seas  draw  backward  from  the  land 
Their  moon-led  waters  white. 

A  star  that  with  the  choral  starry  dance 

Join'd  not,  but  stood,  and  standing  saw 
The  hollow  orb  of  moving  Circumstance 
Roll'd  round  by  one  fix'd  law. 

Back  on  herself  her  serpent  pride  had  curl'd. 

'No  voice,'  she  shriek'd  in  that  lone  hall, 
'No  voice  breaks  thro'  the  stillness  of  this  world: 
One  deep,  deep  silence  all!' 
[  256  ] 


THE    PALACE    OF    ART 

She,  mouldering  with  the  dull  earth's  mouldering  sod, 

Inwrapt  tenfold  in  slothful  shame, 
Lay  there  exiled  from  eternal  God, 
Lost  to  her  place  and  name; 

And  death  and  life  she  hated  equally, 

And  nothing  saw,  for  her  despair, 
But  dreadful  time,  dreadful  eternity, 
No  comfort  anywhere ; 

Remaining  utterly  confused  with  fears, 
And  ever  worse  with  growing  time, 
And  ever  unrelieved  by  dismal  tears, 
And  all  alone  in  crime: 

Shut  up  as  in  a  crumbling  tomb,  girt  round 

With  blackness  as  a  solid  wall, 
Far  off  she  seem'd  to  hear  the  dully  sound 
Of  human  footsteps  fall. 

As  in  strange  lands  a  traveller  walking  slow, 

In  doubt  and  great  perplexity, 
A  little  before  moon-rise  hears  the  low 
Moan  of  an  unknown  sea; 

And  knows  not  if  it  be  thunder,  or  a  sound 

Of  rocks  thrown  down,  or  one  deep  cry 
Of  great  wild  beasts ;  then  thinketh,  '  I  have  found 
A  new  land,  but  I  die.' 

She  howl'd  aloud,  'I  am  on  fire  within. 
There  comes  no  murmur  of  reply. 
[  257  ] 


OF    THE    POET    AND    HIS    ART 

What  is  it  that  will  take  away  my  sin, 
And  save  me  lest  I  die?' 

So  when  four  years  were  wholly  finished, 

She  threw  her  royal  robes  away. 
'Make  me  a  cottage  in  the  vale/  she  said, 
'Where  I  may  mourn  and  pray. 

'Yet  pull  not  down  my  palace  towers,  that  are 

So  lightly,  beautifully  built: 
Perchance  I  may  return  with  others  there 
When  I  have  purged  my  guilt.' 


MERLIN    AND    THE    GLEAM 

I 

O  YOUNG  Mariner, 
You  from  the  haven 
Under  the  sea-cliff, 
You  that  are  watching 
The  gray  Magician 
With  eyes  of  wonder, 
7  am  Merlin, 
And  /  am  dying, 
/  am  Merlin 
Who  follow  The  Gleam. 

II 

Mighty  the  Wizard 
Who  found  me  at  sunrise 
Sleeping,  and  woke  me 

[  258  ] 


MERLIN    AND    THE    GLEAM 

And  learn'd  me  Magic! 
Great  the  Master, 
And  sweet  the  Magic, 
When  over  the  valley, 
In  early  summers, 
Over  the  mountain, 
On  human  faces, 
And  all  around  me, 
Moving  to  melody, 
Floated  The  Gleam. 

in 

Once  at  the  croak  of  a  Raven  who  crost  it, 
A  barbarous  people, 
Blind  to  the  magic, 
And  deaf  to  the  melody, 
Snarl'd  at  and  cursed  me. 
A  demon  vext  me, 
The  light  retreated, 
The  landskip  darken' d, 
The  melody  deaden'd, 
The  Master  whisper' d, 
'Follow  The  Gleam.' 

IV 

Then  to  the  melody, 
Over  a  wilderness 
Gliding,  and  glancing  at 
Elf  of  the  woodland, 
Gnome  of  the  cavern, 
Griffin  and  Giant, 
And  dancing  of  Fairies 
[  259  ] 


OF   THE    POET    AND    HIS    ART 

In  desolate  hollows, 

And  wraiths  of  the  mountain, 

And  rolling  of  dragons 

By  warble  of  water, 

Or  cataract  music 

Of  falling  torrents, 

Flitted  The  Gleam. 


Down  from  the  mountain 

And  over  the  level, 

And  streaming  and  shining  on 

Silent  river, 

Silvery  willow, 

Pasture  and  plowland, 

Innocent  maidens, 

Garrulous  children, 

Homestead  and  harvest, 

Reaper  and  gleaner, 

And  rough-ruddy  faces 

Of  lowly  labour, 

Slided  The  Gleam— 

VI 

Then,  with  a  melody 
Stronger  and  statelier, 
Led  me  at  length 
To  the  city  and  palace 
Of  Arthur  the  king; 
Touch' d  at  the  golden 
Cross  of  the  churches, 
[  260  ] 


MERLIN    AND    THE    GLEAM 

Flash' d  on  the  Tournament, 
Flicker'd  and  bicker'd 
From  helmet  to  helmet, 
And  last  on  the  forehead 
Of  Arthur  the  blameless 
Rested  The  Gleam. 

VII 

Clouds  and  darkness 

Closed  upon  Camelot; 

Arthur  had  vanish'd 

I  knew  not  whither, 

The  king  who  loved  me, 

And  cannot  die; 

For  out  of  the  darkness 

Silent  and  slowly 

The  Gleam,  that  had  waned  to  a  wintry  glimmer 

On  icy  fallow 

And  faded  forest, 

Drew  to  the  valley 

Named  of  the  shadow, 

And  slowly  brightening 

Out  of  the  glimmer, 

And  slowly  moving  again  to  a  melody 

Yearningly  tender, 

Fell  on  the  shadow, 

No  longer  a  shadow, 

But  clothed  with  The  Gleam. 

vm 

And  broader  and  brighter 
The  Gleam  flying  onward, 
C  261  ] 


OF    THE    POET   AND    HIS   ART 

Wed  to  the  melody, 

Sang  thro'  the  world; 

And  slower  and  fainter, 

Old  and  weary, 

But  eager  to  follow, 

I  saw,  whenever 

In  passing  it  glanced  upon 

Hamlet  or  city, 

That  under  the  Crosses 

The  dead  man's  garden, 

The  mortal  hillock, 

Would  break  into  blossom; 

And  so  to  the  land's 

Last  limit  I  came 

And  can  no  longer, 

But  die  rejoicing, 

For  thro'  the  Magic 

Of  Him  the  Mighty, 

Who  taught  me  in  childhood, 

There  on  the  border 

Of  boundless  Ocean, 

And  all  but  in  Heaven 

Hovers  The  Gleam. 

IX 

Not  of  the  sunlight, 
Not  of  the  moonlight, 
Not  of  the  starlight! 
O  young  Mariner, 
Down  to  the  haven, 
Call  your  companions, 
Launch  your  vessel, 
[  262  ] 


'FRATER  AVE  ATQUE  VALE' 

And  crowd  your  canvas, 
And,  ere  it  vanishes 
Over  the  margin, 
After  it,  follow  it, 
Follow  The  Gleam. 


•PRATER    AVE    ATQUE    VALE' 

Row  us  out  from  Desenzano,  to  your  Sirmione  row! 
So  they  row'd,  and  there  we  landed— (O  venusta 

Sirmio ! ' 
There  to  me  thro'  all  the  groves  of  olive  in  the  summer 

glow, 
There  beneath  the  Roman  ruin  where  the  purple 

flowers  grow, 
Came  that  'Ave  atque  Vale'  of  the  Poet's  hopeless 

woe, 
Tenderest  of  Roman  poets  nineteen  hundred  years 

»g°> 

'Frater  Ave  atque  Vale,' — as  we  wander'd  to  and 
fro, 

Gazing  at  the  Lydian  laughter  of  the  Garda  Lake  be- 
low, 

Sweet  Catullus's  all-but-island,  olive-silvery  Sirmio! 

TO   VIRGIL 

WRITTEN    AT    THE    REQUEST    OF    THE    MANTDANS    FOR 
THE   NINETEENTH    CENTENARY   OF    VIRGINS    DEATH 


ROMAN  Virgil,  thou  that  singest 

I  lion's  lofty  temples  robed  in  fire, 
[  263  ] 


OF    THE    POET   AND    HIS   ART 

Ilion  falling,  Rome  arising, 

wars,  and  filial  faith,  and  Dido's  pyre; 

II 
Landscape-lover,  lord  of  language 

more  than  he  that  sang  the  Works  and  Days, 
All  the  chosen  coin  of  fancy 

flashing  out  from  many  a  golden  phrase; 

in 
Thou  that  singest  wheat  and  woodland, 

tilth  and  vineyard,  hive  and  horse  and  herd; 
All  the  charm  of  all  the  Muses 

often  flowering  in  a  lonely  word ; 

IV 

Poet  of  the  happy  Tityrus 

piping  underneath  his  beechen  bowers; 
Poet  of  the  poet-satyr 

whom  the  laughing  shepherd  bound  with  flowers ; 

v 

Chanter  of  the  Pollio,  glorying 

in  the  blissful  years  again  to  be, 
Summers  of  the  snakeless  meadow, 

unlaborious  earth  and  oarless  sea; 

VI 

Thou  that  seest  Universal 

Nature  moved  by  Universal  Mind; 
Thou  majestic  in  thy  sadness 

at  the  doubtful  doom  of  human  kind ; 
[  264  ] 


MILTON 

VII 

Light  among  the  vanish'd  ages; 

star  that  gildest  yet  this  phantom  shore; 
Golden  branch  amid  the  shadows, 

kings  and  realms  that  pass  to  rise  no  more; 

VIII 

Now  thy  Forum  roars  no  longer, 

fallen  every  purple  Caesar's  dome  — 

Tho'  thine  ocean-roll  of  rhythm 

sound  for  ever  of  Imperial  Rome — 

IX 

Now  the  Rome  of  slaves  hath  perish'd, 

and  the  Rome  of  freemen  holds  her  place, 

I,  from  out  the  Northern  Island 

sunder'd  once  from  all  the  human  race, 

x 

I  salute  thee,  Mantovano, 

I  that  loved  thee  since  my  day  began, 
Wielder  of  the  stateliest  measure 

ever  moulded  by  the  lips  of  man. 

MILTON 

ALCAICS 

O  MIGHTY-MOUTH* D  inventor  of  harmonies, 
O  skill'd  to  sing  of  Time  or  Eternity, 
God-gifted  organ-voice  of  England, 

Milton,  a  name  to  resound  for  ages; 
Whose  Titan  angels,  Gabriel,  Abdiel, 
[265  ] 


OF    THE    POET    AND    HIS    ART 

Starr'd  from  Jehovah's  gorgeous  armouries, 
Tower,  as  the  deep-domed  empyrean 

Rings  to  the  roar  of  an  angel  onset — 
Me  rather  all  that  bowery  loneliness, 
The  brooks  of  Eden  mazily  murmuring, 
And  bloom  profuse  and  cedar  arches 

Charm,  as  a  wanderer  out  in  ocean, 
Where  some  refulgent  sunset  of  India 
Streams  o'er  a  rich  ambrosial  ocean  isle, 
And  crimson-hued  the  stately  palm-woods 
Whisper  in  odorous  heights  of  even. 


OF   PATRIOTISM 

"OF   OLD    SAT    FREEDOM    ON 
THE    HEIGHTS" 

OF  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights, 

The  thunders  breaking  at  her  feet: 

Above  her  shook  the  starry  lights: 
She  heard  the  torrents  meet. 

There  in  her  place  she  did  rejoice, 

Self-gather'd  in  her  prophet-mind, 

But  fragments  of  her  mighty  voice 
Came  rolling  on  the  wind. 

Then  stept  she  down  thro'  town  and  field 
To  mingle  with  the  human  race, 

And  part  by  part  to  men  reveal'd 
The  fullness  of  her  face — 
[  266  ] 


ENGLAND   AND    AMERICA 

Grave  mother  of  majestic  works, 

From  her  isle-altar  gazing  down, 

Who,  God-like,  grasps  the  triple  forks, 
And,  King-like,  wears  the  crown: 

Her  open  eyes  desire  the  truth. 

The  wisdom  of  a  thousand  years 
Is  in  them.  May  perpetual  youth 

Keep  dry  their  light  from  tears ; 

That  her  fair  form  may  stand  and  shine, 

Make  bright  our  days  and  light  our  dreams, 

Turning  to  scorn  with  lips  divine 
The  falsehood  of  extremes ! 


ENGLAND    AND    AMERICA    IN    1782 

O  THOU,  that  sendest  out  the  man 

To  rule  by  land  and  sea, 
Strong  mother  of  a  Lion-line, 
Be  proud  of  those  strong  sons  of  thine 

Who  wrench'd  their  rights  from  thee! 

What  wonder,  if  in  noble  heat 

Those  men  thine  arms  withstood, 
Retaught  the  lesson  thou  hadst  taught, 
And  in  thy  spirit  with  thee  fought — 
Who  sprang  from  English  blood! 

But  Thou  rejoice  with  liberal  joy, 

Lift  up  thy  rocky  face, 
And  shatter,  when  the  storms  are  black, 
[  267  ] 


OF    PATRIOTISM 

In  many  a  streaming  torrent  back, 
The  seas  that  shock  thy  base! 

Whatever  harmonies  of  law 

The  growing  world  assume, 
Thy  work  is  thine  —  The  single  note 
From  that  deep  chord  which  Hampden  smote 

Will  vibrate  to  the  doom. 


TO    THE    QUEEN 

REVERED,  beloved — O  you  that  hold 

A  nobler  office  upon  earth 

Than  arms,  or  power  of  brain,  or  birth 
Could  give  the  warrior  kings  of  old, 

Victoria, — since  your  Royal  grace 
To  one  of  less  desert  allows 
This  laurel  greener  from  the  brows 

Of  him  that  utter' d  nothing  base; 

And  should  your  greatness,  and  the  care 
That  yokes  with  empire,  yield  you  time 
To  make  demand  of  modern  rhyme 

If  aught  of  ancient  worth  be  there ; 

Then — while  a  sweeter  music  wakes, 
And  thro'  wild  March  the  throstle  calls, 
Where  all  about  your  palace-walls 

The  sun-lit  almond-blossom  shakes  — 

Take,  Madam,  this  poor  book  of  song; 
For  tho'  the  faults  were  thick  as  dust 
[  268  ] 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  WELLINGTON 

In  vacant  chambers,  I  could  trust 
Your  kindness.  May  you  rule  us  long, 

And  leave  us  rulers  of  your  blood 

As  noble  till  the  latest  day! 

May  children  of  our  children  say, 
'She  wrought  her  people  lasting  good; 

'Her  court  was  pure;  her  life  serene; 

God  gave  her  peace ;  her  land  reposed ; 

A  thousand  claims  to  reverence  closed 
In  her  as  Mother,  Wife,  and  Queen; 

'And  statesmen  at  her  council  met 
Who  knew  the  seasons  when  to  take 
Occasion  by  the  hand,  and  make 

The  bounds  of  freedom  wider  yet 

'By  shaping  some  august  decree, 

Which  kept  her  throne  unshaken  still, 
Broad-based  upon  her  people's  will, 

And  compass' d  by  the  inviolate  sea.' 
•   March,  1851 

ODE   ON    THE    DEATH    OF   THE    DUKE   OF 
WELLINGTON 

PUBLISHED  IN  1852 

I 
BURY  the  Great  Duke 

With  an  empire's  lamentation, 
Let  us  bury  the  Great  Duke 
[  269  ] 


OF    PATRIOTISM 

To  the  noise  of  the  mourning  of  a  mighty  nation, 
Mourning  when  their  leaders  fall, 
Warriors  carry  the  warrior's  pall, 
And  sorrow  darkens  hamlet  and  hall. 

•      II 

Where  shall  we  lay  the  man  whom  we  deplore? 
Here,  in  streaming  London's  central  roar. 
Let  the  sound  of  those  he  wrought  for, 
And  the  feet  of  those  he  fought  for, 
Echo  round  his  bones  for  evermore. 

in 

Lead  out  the  pageant:  sad  and  slow, 
As  fits  an  universal  woe, 
Let  the  long  long  procession  go, 
And  let  the  sorrowing  crowd  about  it  grow, 
And  let  the  mournful  martial  music  blow; 
The  last  great  Englishman  is  low. 

IV 

Mourn,  for  to  us  he  seems  the  last, 
Remembering  all  his  greatness  in  the  Past. 
No  more  in  soldier  fashion  will  he  greet 
With  lifted  hand  the  gazer  in  the  street. 
O  friends,  our  chief  state-oracle  is  mute: 
Mourn  for  the  man  of  long-enduring  blood, 
The  statesman- warrior,  moderate,  resolute, 
Whole  in  himself,  a  common  good. 
Mourn  for  the  man  of  amplest  influence, 
Yet  clearest  of  ambitious  crime, 
[  270  ] 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  WELLINGTON 

Our  greatest  yet  with  least  pretence, 

Great  in  council  and  great  in  war,       • 

Foremost  captain  of  his  time, 

Rich  in  saving  common-sense, 

And,  as  the  greatest  only  are, 

In  his  simplicity  sublime. 

O  good  gray  head  which  all  men  knew, 

O  voice  from  which  their  omens  all  men  drew, 

O  iron  nerve  to  true  occasion  true, 

O  fall'n  at  length  that  tower  of  strength 

Which  stood  four-square  to  all  the  winds  that  blew ! 

Such  was  he  whom  we  deplore. 

The  long  self-sacrifice  of  life  is  o'er. 

The  great  World- victor's  victor  will  be  seen  no  more. 

v 

All  is  over  and  done : 

Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 

England,  for  thy  son. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll'd. 

Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 

And  render  him  to  the  mould. 

Under  the  cross  of  gold 

That  shines  over  city  and  river, 

There  he  shall  rest  for  ever 

Among  the  wise  and  the  bold. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll'd: 

And  a  reverent  people  behold 

The  towering  car,  the  sable  steeds: 

Bright  let  it  be  with  its  blazon'd  deeds, 

Dark  in  its  funeral  fold. 

[  271  ] 


OF    PATRIOTISM 

Let  the  bell  be  toll'd: 

And  a  deeper  knell  in  the  heart  be  knoll' d; 

And  the  sound  of  the  sorrowing  anthem  roll'd 

Thro'  the  dome  of  the  golden  cross; 

And  the  volleying  cannon  thunder  his  loss; 

He  knew  their  voices  of  old. 

For  many  a  time  in  many  a  clime 

His  cap  tain' s-ear  has  heard  them  boom 

Bellowing  victory,  bellowing  doom: 

When  he  with  those  deep  voices  wrought, 

Guarding  realms  and  kings  from  shame; 

With  those  deep  voices  our  dead  captain  taught 

The  tyrant,  and  asserts  his  claim 

In  that  dread  sound  to  the  great  name, 

Which  he  has  worn  so  pure  of  blame, 

In  praise  and  in  dispraise  the  same, 

A  man  of  well-attemper' d  frame. 

O  civic  muse,  to  such  a  name, 

To  such  a  name  for  ages  long, 

To  such  a  name, 

Preserve  a  broad  approach  of  fame, 

And  ever-echoing  avenues  of  song. 

VI 

Who  is  he  that  cometh,  like  an  honour'd  guest, 
With  banner  and  with  music,  with  soldier  and  with 

priest, 

With  a  nation  weeping,  and  breaking  on  my  rest? 
Mighty  Seaman,  this  is  he 
Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea. 
Thine  island  loves  thee  well,  thou  famous  man, 

[  272  ] 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  WELLINGTON 

The  greatest  sailor  since  our  world  began. 

Now,  to  the  roll  of  muffled  drums, 

To  thee  the  greatest  soldier  comes; 

For  this  is  he 

Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea; 

His  foes  were  thine;  he  kept  us  free; 

O  give  him  welcome,  this  is  he 

Worthy  of  our  gorgeous  rites, 

And  worthy  to  be  laid  by  thee; 

For  this  is  England's  greatest  son, 

He  that  gain'd  a  hundred  fights, 

Nor  ever  lost  an  English  gun; 

This  is  he  that  far  away 

Against  the  myriads  of  Assaye 

Clash' d  with  his  fiery  few  and  won; 

And  underneath  another  sun, 

Warring  on  a  later  day, 

Round  affrighted  Lisbon  drew 

The  treble  works,  the  vast  designs 

Of  his  labour'd  rampart-lines, 

Where  he  greatly  stood  at  bay, 

Whence  he  issued  forth  anew, 

And  ever  great  and  greater  grew, 

Beating  from  the  wasted  vines 

Back  to  France  her  banded  swarms, 

Back  to  France  with  countless  blows, 

Till  o'er  the  hills  her  eagles  flew 

Beyond  the  Pyrenean  pines, 

Follow'd  up  in  valley  and  glen 

With  blare  of  bugle,  clamour  of  men, 

Roll  of  cannon  and  clash  of  arms, 

[  273  ] 


OF    PATRIOTISM 

And  England  pouring  on  her  foes. 

Such  a  war  had  such  a  close. 

Again  their  ravening  eagle  rose 

In  anger,  wheel'd  on  Europe-shadowing  wings, 

And  barking  for  the  thrones  of  kings ; 

Till  one  that  sought  but  Duty's  iron  crown 

On  that  loud  sabbath  shook  the  spoiler  down; 

A  day  of  onsets  of  despair ! 

Dash'd  on  every  rocky  square 

Their  surging  charges  foam'd  themselves  away; 

Last,  the  Prussian  trumpet  blew; 

Thro'  the  long-tormented  air 

Heaven  flash'd  a  sudden  jubilant  ray, 

And  down  we  swept  and  charged  and  overthrew. 

So  great  a  soldier  taught  us  there, 

What  long-enduring  hearts  could  do 

In  that  world-earthquake,  Waterloo! 

Mighty  Seaman,  tender  and  true, 

And  pure  as  he  from  taint  of  craven  guile, 

O  saviour  of  the  silver-coasted  isle, 

O  shaker  of  the  Baltic  and  the  Nile, 

If  aught  of  things  that  here  befall 

Touch  a  spirit  among  things  divine, 

If  love  of  country  move  thee  there  at  all, 

Be  glad,  because  his  bones  are  laid  by  thine! 

And  thro'  the  centuries  let  a  people's  voice 

In  full  acclaim, 

A  people's  voice, 

The  proof  and  echo  of  all  human  fame, 

A  people's  voice,  when  they  rejoice 

At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  WELLINGTON 

Attest,  their  great  commander's  claim 

With  honour,  honour,  honour,  honour  to  him, 

Eternal  honour  to  his  name. 


VII 

A  people's  voice!  we  are  a  people  yet. 
Tho'  all  men  else  their  nobler  dreams  forget, 
Confused  by  brainless  mobs  and  lawless  Powers; 
Thank  Him  who  isled  us  here,  and  roughly  set 
His  Briton  in  blown  seas  and  storming  showers, 
We  have  a  voice,  with  which  to  pay  the  debt 
Of  boundless  love  and  reverence  and  regret 
To  those  great  men  who  fought,  and  kept  it  ours. 
And  keep  it  ours,  O  God,  from  brute  control; 
O  Statesmen,  guard  us,  guard  the  eye,  the  soul 
Of  Europe,  keep  our  noble  England  whole, 
And  save  the  one  true  seed  of  freedom  sown 
Betwixt  a  people  and  their  ancient  throne, 
That  sober  freedom  out  of  which  there  springs 
Our  loyal  passion  for  our  temperate  kings; 
For,  saving  that,  ye  help  to  save  mankind 
Till  public  wrong  be  crumbled  into  dust, 
And  drill  the  raw  world  for  the  march  of  mind, 
Till  crowds  at  length  be  sane  and  crowns  be  just. 
But  wink  no  more  in  slothful  overtrust. 
Remember  him  who  led  your  hosts; 
He  bade  you  guard  the  sacred  coasts. 
Your  cannons  moulder  on  the  seaward  wall; 
His  voice  is  silent  in  your  council-hall 
For  ever;  and  whatever  tempests  lour 
For  ever  silent ;  even  if  they  broke 

[  275  ] 


OF    PATRIOTISM 

In  thunder,  silent ;  yet  remember  all 

He  spoke  among  you,  and  the  Man  who  spoke; 

Who  never  sold  the  truth  to  serve  the  hour, 

Nor  palter'd  with  Eternal  God  for  power; 

Who  let  the  turbid  streams  of  rumour  flow 

Thro'  either  babbling  world  of  high  and  low; 

Whose  life  was  work,  whose  language  rife 

With  rugged  maxims  hewn  from  life; 

Who  never  spoke  against  a  foe; 

Whose  eighty  winters  freeze  with  one  rebuke 

All  great  self-seekers  trampling  on  the  right: 

Truth -teller  was  our  England's  Alfred  named; 

Truth-lover  was  our  English  Duke; 

Whatever  record  leap  to  light 

He  never  shall  be  shamed. 

VIII 

Lo,  the  leader  in  these  glorious  wars 
Now  to  glorious  burial  slowly  borne, 
Follow' d  by  the  brave  of  other  lands, 
He,  on  whom  from  both  her  open  hands 
Lavish  Honour  shower'd  all  her  stars, 
And  affluent  Fortune  emptied  all  her  horn. 
Yea,  let  all  good  things  await 
Him  who  cares  not  to  be  great, 
But  as  he  saves  or  serves  the  state. 
Not  once  or  twice  in  our  rough  island-story, 
The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory: 
He  that  walks  it,  only  thirsting 
For  the  right,  and  learns  to  deaden 
Love  of  self,  before  his  journey  closes, 

[  276  ] 


ODE    ON    THE    DEATH    OF    WELLINGTON 

He  shall  find  the  stubborn  thistle  bursting 

Into  glossy  purples,  which  outredden 

All  voluptuous  garden-roses. 

Not  once  or  twice  in  our  fair  island-story, 

The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory: 

He,  that  ever  following  her  commands, 

On  with  toil  of  heart  and  knees  and  hands, 

Thro'  the  long  gorge  to  the  far  light  has  won 

His  path  upward,  and  prevail'd, 

Shall  find  the  toppling  crags  of  Duty  scaled 

Are  close  upon  the  shining  table-lands 

To  which  our  God  Himself  is  moon  and  sun. 

Such  was  he:  his  work  is  done. 

But  while  the  races  of  mankind  endure, 

Let  his  great  example  stand 

Colossal,  seen  of  every  land, 

And  keep  the  soldier  firm,  the  statesman  pure: 

Till  in  all  lands  and  thro'  all  human  story 

The  path  of  duty  be  the  way  to  glory : 

And  let  the  land  whose  hearths  he  saved  from  shame 

For  many  and  many  an  age  proclaim 

At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 

And  when  the  long-illumined  cities  flame, 

Their  ever-loyal  iron  leader's  fame, 

With  honour,  honour,  honour,  honour  to  him, 

Eternal  honour  to  his  name. 


IX 

Peace,  his  triumph  will  be  sung 
By  some  yet  unmoulded  tongue 
Far  on  in  summers  that  we  shall  not  see: 

[277] 


OF    PATRIOTISM 

Peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 

For  one  about  whose  patriarchal  knee 

Late  the  little  children  clung: 

O  peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 

For  one,  upon  whose  hand  and  heart  and  brain 

Once  the  weight  and  fate  of  Europe  hung. 

Ours  the  pain,  be  his  the  gain! 

More  than  is  of  man's  degree 

Must  be  with  us,  watching  here 

At  this,  our  great  solemnity. 

Whom  we  see  not  we  revere; 

We  revere,  and  we  refrain 

From  talk  of  battles  loud  and  vain, 

And  brawling  memories  all  too  free 

For  such  a  wise  humility 

As  befits  a  solemn  fane: 

We  revere,  and  while  we  hear 

The  tides  of  Music's  golden  sea 

Setting  toward  eternity, 

Uplifted  high  in  heart  and  hope  are  we, 

Until  we  doubt  not  that  for  one  so  true 

There  must  be  other  nobler  work  to  do 

Than  when  he  fought  at  Waterloo, 

And  Victor  he  must  ever  be. 

For  tho'  the  Giant  Ages  heave  the  hill 

And  break  the  shore,  and  evermore 

Make  and  break,  and  work  their  will; 

Tho'  world  on  world  in  myriad  myriads  roll 

Round  us,  each  with  different  powers, 

And  other  forms  of  life  than  ours, 

What  know  we  greater  than  the  soul? 

[278] 


THE    VISION    OF    SIN 

On  God  and  Godlike  men  we  build  our  trust. 
Hush,  the  Dead  March  wails  in  the  people's  ears: 
The  dark  crowd  moves,  and  there  are  sobs  and  tears ; 
The  black  earth  yawns:  the  mortal  disappears; 
Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust; 
He  is  gone  who  seem'd  so  great. — 
Gone;  but  nothing  can  bereave  him 
Of  the  force  he  made  his  own 
Being  here,  and  we  believe  him 
Something  far  advanced  in  State, 
And  that  he  wears  a  truer  crown 
Than  any  wreath  that  men  can  weave  him. 
Speak  no  more  of  his  renown, 
Lay  your  earthly  fancies  down, 
And  in  the  vast  cathedral  leave  him, 
God  accept  him,  Christ  receive  him. 
185X 

OF   THE   LIFE   OF   THE   SPIRIT 
THE    VISION    OF    SIN 


I  HAD  a  vision  when  the  night  was  late: 
A  youth  came  riding  toward  a  palace-gate. 
He  rode  a  horse  with  wings,  that  would  have  flown, 
But  that  his  heavy  rider  kept  him  down. 
And  from  the  palace  came  a  child  of  sin, 
And  took  him  by  the  curls,  and  led  him  in, 
Where  sat  a  company  with  heated  eyes, 
Expecting  when  a  fountain  should  arise: 
[279] 


OF   THE    LIFE   OF    THE    SPIRIT 

A  sleepy  light  upon  their  brows  and  lips — 
As  when  the  sun,  a  crescent  of  eclipse, 
Dreams  over  lake  and  lawn,  and  isles  and  capes — 
Suffused  them,  sitting,  lying,  languid  shapes, 
By  heaps  of  gourds,  and  skins  of  wine,  and  piles  of 
grapes. 

II 

Then  methought  I  heard  a  mellow  sound, 
Gathering  up  from  all  the  lower  ground; 
Narrowing  in  to  where  they  sat  assembled 
Low  voluptuous  music  winding  trembled, 
Wov'n  in  circles:  they  that  heard  it  sigh'd, 
Panted  hand-in-hand  with  faces  pale, 
Swung  themselves,  and  in  low  tones  replied; 
Till  the  fountain  spouted,  showering  wide 
Sleet  of  diamond-drift  and  pearly  hail; 
Then  the  music  touch'd  the  gates  and  died; 
Rose  again  from  where  it  seem'd  to  fail, 
Storm' d  in  orbs  of  song,  a  growing  gale; 
Till  thronging  in  and  in,  to  where  they  waited, 
As  't  were  a  hundred-throated  nightingale, 
The  strong  tempestuous  treble  throbb'd  and  palpitated ; 
Ran  into  its  giddiest  whirl  of  sound, 
Caught  the  sparkles,  and  in  circles, 
Purple  gauzes,  golden  hazes,  liquid  mazes, 
Flung  the  torrent  rainbow  round: 
Then  they  started  from  their  places, 
Moved  with  violence,  changed  in  hue, 
Caught  each  other  with  wild  grimaces, 
Half-invisible  to  the  view, 
Wheeling  with  precipitate  paces 
[  280  ] 


THE    VISION    OF    SIN 

To  the  melody,  till  they  flew, 
Hair,  and  eyes,  and  limbs,  and  faces, 
Twisted  hard  in  fierce  embraces, 
Like  to  Furies,  like  to  Graces, 
Dash'd  together  in  blinding  dew: 
Till,  kill'd  with  some  luxurious  agony, 
The  nerve-dissolving  melody 
Flutter'd  headlong  from  the  sky. 

ill 

And  then  I  look'd  up  toward  a  mountain-tract, 
That  girt  the  region  with  high  cliff  and  lawn: 
I  saw  that  every  morning,  far  withdrawn 
Beyond  the  darkness  and  the  cataract, 
God  made  Himself  an  awful  rose  of  dawn, 
Unheeded:  and  detaching,  fold  by  fold, 
From  those  still  heights,  and,  slowly  drawing  near, 
A  vapour  heavy,  hueless,  formless,  cold, 
Came  floating  on  for  many  a  month  and  year, 
Unheeded:  and  I  thought  I  would  have  spoken, 
And  warn'd  that  madman  ere  it  grew  too  late: 
But,  as  in  dreams,  I  could  not.  Mine  was  broken, 
When  that  cold  vapour  touch'd  the  palace  gate, 
And  link'd  again.  I  saw  within  my  head 
A  gray  and  gap-tooth'd  man  as  lean  as  death, 
Who  slowly  rode  across  a  wither' d  heath, 
And  lighted  at  a  ruin'd  inn,  and  said: 

IV 

'Wrinkled  ostler,  grim  and  thin! 
Here  is  custom  come  your  way; 
[  281  ] 


OF    THE    LIFE    OF    THE    SPIRIT 

Take  my  brute,  and  lead  him  in, 
Stuff  his  ribs  with  mouldy  hay. 

'Bitter  barmaid,  waning  fast! 

See  that  sheets  are  on  my  bed; 
What!  the  flower  of  life  is  past: 

It  is  long  before  you  wed. 

'Slip-shod  waiter,  lank  and  sour, 
At  the  Dragon  on  the  heath! 

Let  us  have  a  quiet  hour, 

Let  us  hob-and-nob  with  Death. 

'I  am  old,  but  let  me  drink; 

Bring  me  spices,  bring  me  wine; 
I  remember,  when  I  think, 

That  my  youth  was  half  divine. 

'Wine  is  good  for  shrivell'd  lips, 
When  a  blanket  wraps  the  day, 

When  the  rotten  woodland  drips, 
And  the  leaf  is  stamp'd  in  clay. 

'Sit  thee  down,  and  have  no  shame, 
Cheek  by  jowl,  and  knee  by  knee : 

What  care  I  for  any  name? 
What  for  order  or  degree? 

'Let  me  screw  thee  up  a  peg: 

Let  me  loose  thy  tongue  with  wine: 

Callest  thou  that  thing  a  leg? 

Which  is  thinnest?  thine  or  mine? 
[  282  ] 


THE   VISION    OF   SIN 

'Thou  shalt  not  be  saved  by  works: 

Thou  hast  been  a  sinner  too: 
Ruin'd  trunks  on  wither' d  forks, 

Empty  scarecrows,  I  and  you! 

'Fill  the  cup,  and  fill  the  can: 
Have  a  rouse  before  the  morn: 

Every  moment  dies  a  man, 
Every  moment  one  is  born. 

'We  are  men  of  ruin'd  blood; 

Therefore  comes  it  we  are  wise. 
Fish  are  we  that  love  the  mud, 

Rising  to  no  fancy-flies. 

'Name  and  fame!  to  fly  sublime 

Thro'  the  courts,  the  camps,  the  schools, 
Is  to  be  the  ball  of  Time, 

Bandied  by  the  hands  of  fools. 

'Friendship! — to  be  two  in  one — 

Let  the  canting  liar  pack! 
Well  I  know,  when  I  am  gone, 

How  she  mouths  behind  my  back. 

'Virtue! — to  be  good  and  just — 
Every  heart,  when  sifted  well, 

Is  a  clot  of  warmer  dust, 

Mix'd  with  cunning  sparks  of  hell. 

'O!  we  two  as  well  can  look 

Whited  thought  and  cleanly  life 
[  283  ] 


OF    THE    LIFE    OF   THE    SPIRIT 

As  the  priest,  above  his  book 
Leering  at  his  neighbour's  wife. 

'Fill  the  cup,  and  fill  the  can: 
Have  a  rouse  before  the  morn : 

Every  moment  dies  a  man, 
Every  moment  one  is  born. 

f Drink,  and  let  the  parties  rave: 
They  are  fill'd  with  idle  spleen; 

Rising,  falling,  like  a  wave, 

For  they  know  not  what  they  mean. 

'He  that  roars  for  liberty 

Faster  binds  a  tyrant's  power; 

And  the  tyrant's  cruel  glee 
Forces  on  the  freer  hour. 

'Fill  the  can,  and  fill  the  cup: 
All  the  windy  ways  of  men 

Are  but  dust  that  rises  up, 
And  is  lightly  laid  again. 

'Greet  her  with  applausive  breath, 
Freedom,  gaily  doth  she  tread; 

In  her  right  a  civic  wreath, 
In  her  left  a  human  head. 

'No,  I  love  not  what  is  new; 

She  is  of  an  ancient  house: 
And  I  think  we  know  the  hue 

Of  that  cap  upon  her  brows. 
[  284  ] 


THE    VISION    OF   SIN 

'Let  her  go!  her  thirst  she  slakes 
Where  the  bloody  conduit  runs, 

Then  her  sweetest  meal  she  makes 
On  the  first-born  of  her  sons. 

'Drink  to  lofty  hopes  that  cool 
Visions  of  a  perfect  State  : 

Drink  we,  last,  the  public  fool, 
Frantic  love  and  frantic  hate. 

'Chant  me  now  some  wicked  stave, 
Till  thy  drooping  courage  rise, 

And  the  glow-worm  of  the  grave 
Glimmer  in  thy  rheumy  eyes. 

'Fear  not  thou  to  loose  thy  tongue; 

Set  thy  hoary  fancies  free; 
What  is  loathsome  to  the  young 

Savours  well  to  thee  and  me. 

'Change,  reverting  to  the  years, 
When  thy  nerves  could  understand 

What  there  is  in  loving  tears, 

And  the  warmth  of  hand  in  hand. 

'Tell  me  tales  of  thy  first  love 
April  hopes,  the  fools  of  chance ; 

Till  the  graves  begin  to  move, 
And  the  dead  begin  to  dance. 

'Fill  the  can,  and  fill  the  cup: 
All  the  windy  ways  of  men 

[  285  ] 


OF    THE    LIFE    OF    THE    SPIRIT 

Are  but  dust  that  rises  up, 
And  is  lightly  laid  again. 

'Trooping  from  their  mouldy  dens 
The  chap-fallen  circle  spreads: 

Welcome,  fellow-citizens, 

Hollow  hearts  and  empty  heads! 

'You  are  bones,  and  what  of  that? 

Every  face,  however  full, 
Padded  round  with  flesh  and  fat, 

Is  but  modell'd  on  a  skull. 

'Death  is  king,  and  Vivat  Rex! 

Tread  a  measure  on  the  stones, 
Madam  —  if  I  know  your  sex, 

From  the  fashion  of  your  bones. 

'No,  I  cannot  praise  the  fire 
In  your  eye  —  nor  yet  your  lip: 

All  the  more  do  I  admire 

Joints  of  cunning  workmanship. 

'Lo!  Gbd's  likeness — the  ground-plan — 
Neither  modell'd,  glazed,  nor  framed: 

Buss  me,  thou  rough  sketch  of  man, 
Far  too  naked  to  be  shamed! 

'Drink  to  Fortune,  drink  to  Chance, 
While  we  keep  a  little  breath! 

Drink  to  heavy  Ignorance! 

Hob-and-nob  with  brother  Death! 
[  286  ] 


THE    VISION    OF    SIN 

'Thou  art  mazed,  the  night  is  long, 
And  the  longer  night  is  near: 

What!  I  am  not  all  as  wrong 
As  a  bitter  jest  is  dear. 

'Youthful  hopes,  by  scores,  to  all, 
When  the  locks  are  crisp  and  curl'd; 

Unto  me  my  maudlin  gall 

And  my  mockeries  of  the  world. 

'Fill  the  cup,  and  fill  the  can: 
Mingle  madness,  mingle  scorn! 

Dregs  of  life,  and  lees  of  man: 
Yet  we  will  not  die  forlorn.' 


The  voice  grew  faint:  there  came  a  further  change: 
Once  more  uprose  the  mystic  mountain-range: 
Below  were  men  and  horses  pierced  with  worms, 
And  slowly  quickening  into  lower  forms; 
By  shards  and  scurf  of  salt,  and  scum  of  dross, 
Old  plash  of  rains,  and  refuse  patch'd  with  moss. 
Then  some  one  spake:  'Behold!  it  was  a  crime 
Of  sense  avenged  by  sense  that  wore  with  time.' 
Another  said:  'The  crime  of  sense  became 
The  crime  of  malice,  and  is  equal  blame.' 
And  one:  'He  had  not  wholly  quench'd  his  power; 
A  little  grain  of  conscience  made  him  sour.' 
At  last  I  heard  a  voice  upon  the  slope 
Cry  to  the  summit,  'Is  there  any  hope?' 
To  which  an  answer  peal'd  from  that  high  land, 
[  287  ] 


OF    THE    LIFE    OF    THE    SPIRIT 

But  in  a  tongue  no  man  could  understand; 
And  on  the  glimmering  limit  far  withdrawn 
God  made  Himself  an  awful  rose  of  dawn. 


THE    ANCIENT   SAGE 

A  THOUSAND  summers  ere  the  time  of  Christ 
From  out  his  ancient  city  came  a  Seer 
Whom  one  that  loved,  and  honour' d  him,  and  yet 
Was  no  disciple,  richly  garb'd,  but  worn 
From  wasteful  living,  follow'd  —  in  his  hand 
A  scroll  of  verse — till  that  old  man  before 
A  cavern  whence  an  affluent  fountain  pour'd 
From  darkness  into  daylight,  turn'd  and  spoke. 

This  wealth  of  waters  might  but  seem  to  draw 
From  yon  dark  cave,  but,  son,  the  source  is  higher, 
Yon  summit  half-a-league  in  air — and  higher, 
The  cloud  that  hides  it — higher  still,  the  heavens 
Whereby  the  cloud  was  moulded,  and  whereout 
The  cloud  descended.  Force  is  from  the  heights. 
I  am  wearied  of  our  city,  son,  and  go 
To  spend  my  one  last  year  among  the  hills. 
What  hast  thou  there  ?  Some  deathsong  for  the  Ghouls 
To  make  their  banquet  relish?  let  me  read. 

"How  far  thro'  all  the  bloom  and  brake 

That  nightingale  is  heard! 
What  power  but  the  bird's  could  make 

This  music  in  the  bird? 
How  summer-bright  are  yonder  skies, 

And  earth  as  fair  in  hue! 
[  288  ] 


THE    ANCIENT    SAGE 

And  yet  what  sign  of  aught  that  lies 

Behind  the  green  and  blue? 
But  man  to-day  is  fancy's  fool 

As  man  hath  ever  been. 
The  nameless  Power,  or  Powers,  that  rule 

Were  never  heard  or  seen." 

If  thou  would' st  hear  the  Nameless,  and  wilt  dive 
Into  the  Temple-cave  of  thine  own  self, 
There,  brooding  by  the  central  altar,  thou 
May'st  haply  learn  the  Nameless  hath  a  voice, 
By  which  thou  wilt  abide,  if  thou  be  wise, 
As  if  thou  knewest,  tho'  thou  canst  not  know; 
For  Knowledge  is  the  swallow  on  the  lake 
That  sees  and  stirs  the  surface-shadow  there 
But  never  yet  hath  dipt  into  the  abysm, 
The  Abysm  of  all  Abysms,  beneath,  within 
The  blue  of  sky  and  sea,  the  green  of  earth, 
And  in  the  million-millionth  of  a  grain 
Which  cleft  and  cleft  again  for  evermore, 
And  ever  vanishing,  never  vanishes, 
To  me,  my  son,  more  mystic  than  myself, 
Or  even  than  the  Nameless  is  to  me. 

And  when  thou  sendest  thy  free  soul  thro'  heaven, 
Nor  understandest  bound  nor  boundlessness, 
Thou  seest  the  Nameless  of  the  hundred  names. 

And  if  the  Nameless  should  withdraw  from  all 
Thy  frailty  counts  most  real,  all  thy  world 
Might  vanish  like  thy  shadow  in  the  dark. 

"And  since — from  when  this  earth  began — 
The  Nameless  never  came 
[  289  ] 


OF    THE    LIFE    OF    THE    SPIRIT 

Among  us,  never  spake  with  man, 
And  never  named  the  Name" — 

Thou  canst  not  prove  the  Nameless,  O  my  son, 
Nor  canst  thou  prove  the  world  thou  movest  in, 
Thou  canst  not  prove  that  thou  art  body  alone, 
Nor  canst  thou  prove  that  thou  art  spirit  alone, 
Nor  canst  thou  prove  that  thou  art  both  in  one : 
Thou  canst  not  prove  thou  art  immortal,  no 
Nor  yet  that  thou  art  mortal — nay,  my  son, 
Thou  canst  not  prove  that  I,  who  speak  with  thee, 
Am  not  thyself  in  converse  with  thyself, 
For  nothing  worthy  proving  can  be  proven, 
Nor  yet  disproven :  wherefore  thou  be  wise, 
Cleave  ever  to  the  sunnier  side  of  doubt, 
And  cling  to  Faith  beyond  the  forms  of  Faith! 
She  reels  not  in  the  storm  of  warring  words, 
She  brightens  at  the  clash  of  'Yes'  and  'No,' 
She  sees  the  Best  that  glimmers  thro'  the  Worst, 
She  feels  the  Sun  is  hid  but  for  a  night, 
She  spies  the  summer  thro'  the  winter  bud, 
She  tastes  the  fruit  before  the  blossom  falls, 
She  hears,  the  lark  within  the  songless  egg, 
She  finds  the  fountain  where  they  wail'd  'Mirage'! 

"What  Power?  aught  akin  to  Mind, 

The  mind  in  me  and  you? 
Or  power  as  of  the  Gods  gone  blind 

Who  see  not  what  they  do?" 

But  some  in  yonder  city  hold,  my  son, 
That  none  but  Gods  could  build  this  house  of  ours, 
[  290  ] 


THE   ANCIENT    SAGE 

So  beautiful,  vast,  various,  so  beyond 

All  work  of  man,  yet,  like  all  work  of  man, 

A  beauty  with  defect till  That  which  knows, 

And  is  not  known,  but  felt  thro'  what  we  feel 
Within  ourselves  is  highest,  shall  descend 
On  this  half-deed,  and  shape  it  at  the  last 
According  to  the  Highest  in  the  Highest. 

"What  Power  but  the  Years  that  make 

And  break  the  vase  of  clay, 
And  stir  the  sleeping  earth,  and  wake 

The  bloom  that  fades  away? 
What  rulers  but  the  Days  and  Hours 

That  cancel  weal  with  woe, 
And  wind  the  front  of  youth  with  flowers, 

And  cap  our  age  with  snow?" 

The  days  and  hours  are  ever  glancing  by, 
And  seem  to  flicker  past  thro'  sun  and  shade, 
Or  short,  or  long,  as  Pleasure  leads,  or  Pain; 
But  with  the  Nameless  is  nor  Day  nor  Hour; 
Tho'  we,  thin  minds,  who  creep  from  thought  to 

thought, 

Break  into  'Thens'  and  'Whens'  the  Eternal  Now: 
This  double  seeming  of  the  single  world!  — 
My  words  are  like  the  babblings  in  a  dream 
Of  nightmare,  when  the  babblings  break  the  dream. 
But  thou  be  wise  in  this  dream-world  of  ours, 
Nor  take  thy  dial  for  thy  deity, 
But  make  the  passing  shadow  serve  thy  will. 

C  291  ] 


OF   THE    LIFE    OF    THE    SPIRIT 

"The  years  that  made  the  stripling  wise 

Undo  their  work  again, 
And  leave  him,  blind  of  heart  and  eyes, 

The  last  and  least  of  men; 
Who  clings  to  earth,  and  once  would  dare 

Hell-heat  or  Arctic  cold, 
And  now  one  breath  of  cooler  air 

Would  loose  him  from  his  hold; 
His  winter  chills  him  to  the  root, 

He  withers  marrow  and  mind; 
The  kernel  of  the  shrivell'd  fruit 

Is  jutting  thro'  the  rind; 
The  tiger  spasms  tear  his  chest, 

The  palsy  wags  his  head; 
The  wife,  the  sons,  who  love  him  best 

Would  fain  that  he  were  dead; 
The  griefs  by  which  he  once  was  wrung 

Were  never  worth  the  while" — 

Who  knows?  or  whether  this  earth -narrow  life 
Be  yet  but  yolk,  and  forming  in  the  shell? 

"The  shaft  of  scorn  that  once  had  stung 
But  wakes  a  dotard  smile." 

The  placid  gleam  of  sunset  after  storm ! 

"The  statesman's  brain  that  sway'd  the  past 

Is  feebler  than  his  knees; 
The  passive  sailor  wrecks  at  last 

In  ever-silent  seas ; 
The  warrior  hath  forgot  his  arms, 
[  292  ] 


THE    ANCIENT    SAGE 

The  Learned  all  his  lore; 
The  changing  market  frets  or  charms 

The  merchant's  hope  no  more; 
The  prophet's  beacon  burn'd  in  vain, 

And  now  is  lost  in  cloud; 
The  plowman  passes,  bent  with  pain, 

To  mix  with  what  he  plow'd; 
The  poet  whom  his  Age  would  quote 

As  heir  of  endless  fame — 
He  knows  not  ev'n  the  book  he  wrote, 

Not  even  his  own  name. 
For  man  has  overlived  his  day, 

And,  darkening  in  the  light, 
Scarce  feels  the  senses  break  away 

To  mix  with  ancient  Night." 

The  shell  must  break  before  the  bird  can  fly. 

"The  years  that  when  my  Youth  began 

Had  set  the  lily  and  rose 
By  all  my  ways  where'er  they  ran, 

Have  ended  mortal  foes; 
My  rose  of  love  for  ever  gone, 

My  lily  of  truth  and  trust — 
They  made  her  lily  and  rose  in  one, 

And  changed  her  into  dust. 
O  rosetree  planted  in  my  grief, 

And  growing,  on  her  tomb, 
Her  dust  is  greening  in  your  leaf, 

Her  blood  is  in  your  bloom. 
O  slender  lily  waving  there, 

And  laughing  back  the  light, 
[  293  ] 


OF    THE    LIFE    OF    THE    SPIRIT 

In  vain  you  tell  me  'Earth  is  fair' 
When  all  is  dark  as  night." 

My  son,  the  world  is  dark  with  griefs  and  graves, 
So  dark  that  men  cry  out  against  the  Heavens. 
Who  knows  but  that  the  darkness  is  in  man? 
The  doors  of  Night  may  be  the  gates  of  Light; 
For  wert  thou  born  or  blind  or  deaf,  and  then 
Suddenly  heal'd,  how  would'st  thou  glory  in  all 
The  splendours  and  the  voices  of  the  world! 
And  we,  the  poor  earth's  dying  race,  and  yet 
No  phantoms,  watching  from  a  phantom  shore 
Await  the  last  and  largest  sense  to  make 
The  phantom  walls  of  this  illusion  fade, 
And  show  us  that  the  world  is  wholly  fair. 

"But  vain  the  tears  for  darken'd  years 

As  laughter  over  wine, 
And  vain  the  laughter  as  the  tears, 

O  brother,  mine  or  thine, 
For  all  that  laugh,  and  all  that  weep, 

And  all  that  breathe  are  one 
Slight  ripple  on  the  boundless  deep 

That  moves,  and  all  is  gone." 

But  that  one  ripple  on  the  boundless  deep 
Feels  that  the  deep  is  boundless,  and  itself 
For  ever  changing  form,  but  evermore 
One  with  the  boundless  motion  of  the  deep. 

"Yet  wine  and  laughter  friends!  and  set 
The  lamps  alight,  and  call 
[  294  ] 


THE    ANCIENT    SAGE 

For  golden  music,  and  forget 
The  darkness  of  the  pall." 

If  utter  darkness  closed  the  day,  my  son- 


But  earth's  dark  forehead  flings  athwart  the  heavens 

Her  shadow  crown'd  with  stars — and  yonder — out 

To  northward — some  that  never  set,  but  pass 

From  sight  and  night  to  lose  themselves  in  day. 

I  hate  the  black  negation  of  the  bier, 

And  wish  the  dead,  as  happier  than  ourselves 

And  higher,  having  climb'd  one  step  beyond 

Our  village  miseries,  might  be  borne  in  white 

To  burial  or  to  burning,  hymn'd  from  hence 

With  songs  in  praise  of  death,  and  crown'd  with  flowers ! 

"  O  worms  and  maggots  of  to-day 
Without  their  hope  of  wings!" 

But  louder  than  thy  rhyme  the  silent  Word 
Of  that  world-prophet  in  the  heart  of  man. 

"Tho"  some  have  gleams  or  so  they  say 
Of  more  than  mortal  things." 

To-day?  but  what  of  yesterday?  for  oft 
On  me,  when  boy,  there  came  what  then  I  call'd, 
Who  knew  no  books  and  no  philosophies, 
In  my  boy-phrase  'The  Passion  of  the  Past.' 
The  first  gray  streak  of  earliest  summer-dawn, 
The  last  long  stripe  of  waning  crimson  gloom, 
As  if  the  late  and  early  were  but  one — 
A  height,  a  broken  grange,  a  grove,  a  flower 
[  295  ] 


OF   THE    LIFE    OF   THE    SPIRIT 

Had  murmurs  'Lost  and  gone  and  lost  and  gone!' 
A  breath,  a  whisper — some  divine  farewell — 
Desolate  sweetness — far  and  far  away — 
What  had  he  loved,  what  had  he  lost,  the  boy? 
I  know  not  and  I  speak  of  what  has  been. 

And  more,  my  son!  for  more  than  once  when  I 
Sat  all  alone,  revolving  in  myself 
The  word  that  is  the  symbol  of  myself, 
The  mortal  limit  of  the  Self  was  loosed, 
And  past  into  the  Nameless,  as  a  cloud 
Melts  into  Heaven.  I  touch'd  my  limbs,  the  limbs 
Were  strange  not  mine — and  yet  no  shade  of  doubt, 
But  utter  clearness,  and  thro'  loss  of  Self 
The  gain  of  such  large  life  as  match'd  with  ours 
Were  Sun  to  spark — unshadowable  in  words, 
Themselves  but  shadows  of  a  shadow-world. 

"And  idle  gleams  will  come  and  go, 
But  still  the  clouds  remain;" 

The  clouds  themselves  are  children  of  the  Sun. 

"And  Night  and  Shadow  rule  below 
When  only  Day  should  reign." 

And  Day  and  Night  are  children  of  the  Sun, 
And  idle  gleams  to  thee  are  light  to  me. 
Some  say,  the  Light  was  father  of  the  Night, 
And  some,  the  Night  was  father  of  the  Light, 
No  night  no  day!  —  I  touch  thy  world  again — 
No  ill  no  good!  such  counter-terms,  my  son, 
Are  border-races,  holding,  each  its  own 
[  296  ] 


THE    ANCIENT    SAGE 

By  endless  war:  but  night  enough  is  there 
In  yon  dark  city:  get  thee  back:  and  since 
The  key  to  that  weird  casket,  which  for  thee 
But  holds  a  skull,  is  neither  thine  nor  mine, 
But  in  the  hand  of  what  is  more  than  man, 
Or  in  man's  hand  when  man  is  more  than  man, 
Let  be  thy  wail  and  help  thy  fellow  men, 
And  make  thy  gold  thy  vassal  not  thy  king, 
And  fling  free  alms  into  the  beggar's  bowl, 
And  send  the  day  into  the  darken'd  heart; 
Nor  list  for  guerdon  in  the  voice  of  men, 
A  dying  echo  from  a  falling  wall; 
Nor  care — for  Hunger  hath  the  Evil  eye — 
To  vex  the  noon  with  fiery  gems,  or  fold 
Thy  presence  in  the  silk  of  sumptuous  looms ; 
Nor  roll  thy  viands  on  a  luscious  tongue, 
Nor  drown  thyself  with  flies  in  honied  wine; 
Nor  thou  be  rageful,  like  a  handled  bee, 
And  lose  thy  life  by  usage  of  thy  sting; 
Nor  harm  an  adder  thro'  the  lust  for  harm, 
Nor  make  a  snail's  horn  shrink  for  wantonness; 
And  more — think  well!  Do- well  will  follow  thought, 
And  in  the  fatal  sequence  of  this  world 
An  evil  thought  may  soil  thy  children's  blood; 
But  curb  the  beast  would  cast  thee  in  the  mire, 
And  leave  the  hot  swamp  of  voluptuousness 
A  cloud  between  the  Nameless  and  thyself, 
And  lay  thine  uphill  shoulder  to  the  wheel, 
And  climb  the  Mount  of  Blessing,  whence,  if  thou 
Look  higher,  then — perchance — thou  mayest — be- 
yond 

[297  ] 


OF    THE    LIFE    OF    THE    SPIRIT 

A  hundred  ever-rising  mountain  lines, 
And  past  the  range  of  Night  and  Shadow — see 
The  high-heaven  dawn  of  more  than  mortal  day 
Strike  on  the  Mount  of  Vision ! 

So,  farewell. 

"FLOWER    IN   THE    CRANNIED    WALL" 

FLOWER  in  the  crannied  wall, 

I  pluck  you  out  of  the  crannies, 

I  hold  you  here,  root  and  all,  in  my  hand, 

Little  flower — but  if  I  could  understand 

What  you  are,  root  and  all,  and  all  in  all, 

I  should  know  what  God  and  man  is. 

THE    HIGHER    PANTHEISM 

THE  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  seas,  the  hills  and 

the  plains — 
Are  not  these,  O  Soul,  the  Vision  of  Him  who  reigns? 

Is  not  the  Vision  He?  tho'  He  be  not  that  which  He 

seems? 
Dreams  are  true  while  they  last,  and  do  we  not  live 

in  dreams? 

Earth,  these  solid  stars,  this  weight  of  body  and  limb, 
Are  they  not  sign  and  symbol  of  thy  division  from 
Him? 

Dark  is  the  world  to  thee :  thyself  art  the  reason  why ; 
For  is  He  not  all  but  that  which  has  power  to  feel '  I 

am  I'? 

[  298  ] 


WILL 

Glory  about  thee,  without  thee ;  and  thou  fulfillest  thy 

doom 
Making  Him  broken  gleams,  and  a  stifled  splendour 

and  gloom. 

Speak  to  Him  thou  for  He  hears,  and  Spirit  with 

Spirit  can  meet — 
Closer  is  He  than  breathing,  and  nearer  than  hands 

and  feet. 

God  is  law,  say  the  wise;  O  Soul,  and  let  us  rejoice, 
For  if  He  thunder  by  law  the  thunder  is  yet  His  voice. 

Law  is  God,  say  some :  no  God  at  all,  says  the  fool ; 
For  all  we  have  power  to  see  is  a  straight  staff  bent 
in  a  pool; 

And  the  ear  of  man  cannot  hear,  and  the  eye  of  man 

cannot  see; 
But  if  we  could  see  and  hear,  this  Vision — were  it 

not  He? 

WILL 

I 

O  WELL  for  him  whose  will  is  strong! 
He  suffers,  but  he  will  not  suffer  long; 
He  suffers,  but  he  cannot  suffer  wrong: 
For  him  nor  moves  the  loud  world's  random  mock, 
Nor  all  Calamity's  hugest  waves  confound, 
Who  seems  a  promontory  of  rock, 
That,  com  pass' d  round  with  turbulent  sound, 
In  middle  ocean  meets  the  surging  shock, 
Tempest-buffeted,  citadel-crown'd. 
[  299  ] 


OF    THE    LIFE   OF    THE    SPIRIT 

II 

But  ill  for  him  who,  bettering  not  with  time, 
Corrupts  the  strength  of  heaven-descended  Will, 
And  ever  weaker  grows  thro'  acted  crime, 
Or  seeming-genial  venial  fault, 
Recurring  and  suggesting  still ! 
He  seems  as  one  whose  footsteps  halt, 
Toiling  in  immeasurable  sand, 
And  o'er  a  weary  sultry  land, 
Far  beneath  a  blazing  vault, 
Sown  in  a  wrinkle  of  the  monstrous  hill, 
The  city  sparkles  like  a  grain  of  salt. 

WAGES 

GLORY  of  warrior,  glory  of  orator,  glory  of  song, 
Paid  with  a  voice  flying  by  to  be  lost  on  an  end- 
less sea — 
Glory  of  Virtue,  to  fight,  to  struggle,  to  right  the 

wrong — 

Nay,  but  she  aim'd  not  at  glory,no  lover  of  glory  she : 
Give  her  the  glory  of  going  on,  and  still  to  be. 

The  wages  of  sin  is  death :  if  the  wages  of  Virtue  be 

dust, 
Would  she  have  heart  to  endure  for  the  life  of  the 

worm  and  the  fly? 
She  desires  no  isles  of  the  blest,  no  quiet  seats  of  the 

just, 
To  rest  in  a  golden  grove,  or  to  bask  in  a  summer 

sky: 

Give  her  the  wages  of  going  on,  and  not  to  die. 
[  300  ] 


THE    DESERTED    HOUSE 

THE    DESERTED    HOUSE 

I 
LIFE  and  Thought  have  gone  away 

Side  by  side, 

Leaving  door  and  windows  wide: 
Careless  tenants  they! 

II 

All  within  is  dark  as  night: 
In  the  windows  is  no  light; 
And  no  murmur  at  the  door, 
So  frequent  on  its  hinge  before. 

in 

Close  the  door,  the  shutters  close, 

Or  thro'  the  windows  we  shall  see 
The  nakedness  and  vacancy 

Of  the  dark  deserted  house. 

IV 

Come  away :  no  more  of  mirth 

Is  here  or  merry-making  sound. 

The  house  was  builded  of  the  earth, 
And  shall  fall  again  to  ground. 


Come  away:  for  Life  and  Thought 
Here  no  longer  dwell; 

But  in  a  city  glorious — 
A  great  and  distant  city — have  bought 

A  mansion  incorruptible. 
Would  they  could  have  stayed  with  us! 
[301] 


OF    THE    LIFE    OF    THE    SPIRIT 

"BREAK,    BREAK,    BREAK" 

BREAK,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

O  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play! 

O  well  for  the  sailor  lad, 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 
To  their  haven  under  the  hill ; 

But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanish'd  hand, 
And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still ! 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 


IN    THE   VALLEY    OF    CAUTERETZ 

ALL  along  the  valley,  stream  that  flashest  white, 
Deepening  thy  voice  with  the  deepening  of  the  night, 
All  along  the  valley,  where  thy  waters  flow, 
I  walk'd  with  one  I  loved  two  and  thirty  years  ago. 
All  along  the  valley,  while  I  walk'd  to-day, 
The  two  and  thirty  years  were  a  mist  that  rolls  away; 
For  all  along  the  valley,  down  thy  rocky  bed, 
Thy  living  voice  to  me  was  as  the  voice  of  the  dead, 
[  302  ] 


SELECTIONS    FROM    IN   MEMORIAM 

And  all  along  the  valley,  by  rock  and  cave  and  tree, 
The  voice  of  the  dead  was  a  living  voice  to  me. 


SELECTIONS    FROM 
IN    MEMORIAM    A.  H.  H. 

OBIIT    MDCCCXXXIII 
PROLOGUE 

STRONG  Son  of  God,  immortal  Love, 

Whom  we,  that  have  not  seen  thy  face, 
By  faith,  and  faith  alone,  embrace, 

Believing  where  we  cannot  prove; 

Thine  are  these  orbs  of  light  and  shade; 

Thou  madest  Life  in  man  and  brute; 

Thou  madest  Death;  and  lo,  thy  foot 
Is  on  the  skull  which  thou  hast  made. 

Thou  wilt  not  leave  us  in  the  dust: 

Thou  madest  man,  he  knows  not  why, 
He  thinks  he  was  not  made  to  die; 

And  thou  hast  made  him:  thou  art  just. 

Thou  seemest  human  and  divine, 

The  highest,  holiest  manhood,  thou: 
Our  wills  are  ours,  we  know  not  how; 

Our  wills  are  ours,  to  make  them  thine. 

Our  little  systems  have  their  day; 

They  have  their  day  and  cease  to  be: 
[  303  ] 


OF    THE    LIFE    OF   THE    SPIRIT 

They  are  but  broken  lights  of  thee, 
And  thou,  O  Lord,  art  more  than  they. 

We  have  but  faith:  we  cannot  know; 

For  knowledge  is  of  things  we  see; 

And  yet  we  trust  it  comes  from  thee, 
A  beam  in  darkness:  let  it  grow. 

Let  knowledge  grow  from  more  to  more, 
But  more  of  reverence  in  us  dwell ; 
That  mind  and  soul,  according  well, 

May  make  one  music  as  before, 

But  vaster.  We  are  fools  and  slight; 

We  mock  thee  when  we  do  not  fear: 
But  help  thy  foolish  ones  to  bear ; 

Help  thy  vain  worlds  to  bear  thy  light. 

Forgive  what  seem'd  my  sin  in  me; 

What  seem'd  my  worth  since  I  began; 

For  merit  lives  from  man  to  man, 
And  not  from  man,  O  Lord,  to  thee. 

Forgive  my  grief  for  one  removed, 

Thy  creature,  whom  I  found  so  fair. 
I  trust  he  lives  in  thee,  and  there 

I  find  him  worthier  to  be  loved. 

Forgive  these  wild  and  wandering  cries, 
Confusions  of  a  wasted  youth ; 
Forgive  them  where  they  fail  in  truth, 

And  in  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise. 
[304] 


SELECTIONS    FROM    IN    MEMORIAM 

I 

I  held  it  truth,  with  him  who  sings 
To  one  clear  harp  in  divers  tones, 
That  men  may  rise  on  stepping-stones 

Of  their  dead  selves  to  higher  things. 

But  who  shall  so  forecast  the  years 
And  find  in  loss  a  gain  to  match? 
Or  reach  a  hand  thro'  time  to  catch 

The  far-off  interest  of  tears? 

Let  Love  clasp  Grief  lest  both  be  drown'd, 
Let  darkness  keep  her  raven  gloss: 
Ah,  sweeter  to  be  drunk  with  loss, 

To  dance  with  death,  to  beat  the  ground, 

Than  that  the  victor  Hours  should  scorn 
The  long  result  of  Love,  and  boast, 
'Behold  the  man  that  loved  and  lost, 

But  all  he  was  is  overworn.' 

VII 

Dark  house,  by  which  once  more  I  stand 
Here  in  the  long  unlovely  street, 
Doors,  where  my  heart  was  used  to  beat 

So  quickly,  waiting  for  a  hand, 

A  hand  that  can  be  clasp' d  no  more — 
Behold  me,  for  I  cannot  sleep, 
And  like  a  guilty  thing  I  creep 

At  earliest  morning  to  the  door. 
[  305  ] 


OF   THE   LIFE    OF   THE   SPIRIT 

He  is  not  here ;  but  far  away 

The  noise  of  life  begins  again, 
And  ghastly  thro'  the  drizzling  rain 

On  the  bald  street  breaks  the  blank  day. 

IX 

Fair  ship,  that  from  the  Italian  shore 
Sailest  the  placid  ocean-plains 
With  my  lost  Arthur's  loved  remains, 

Spread  thy  full  wings,  and  waft  him  o'er. 

So  draw  him  home  to  those  that  mourn 
In  vain;  a  favourable  speed 
Ruffle  thy  mirror'd  mast,  and  lead 

Thro'  prosperous  floods  his  holy  urn. 

All  night  no  ruder  air  perplex 

Thy  sliding  keel,  till  Phosphor,  bright 
As  our  pure  love,  thro'  early  light 

Shall  glimmer  on  the  dewy  decks. 

Sphere  all  your  lights  around,  above; 

Sleep,  gentle  heavens,  before  the  prow; 

Sleep,  gentle  winds,  as  he  sleeps  now, 
My  friend,  the  brother  of  my  love ; 

My  Arthur,  whom  I  shall  not  see 

Till  all  my  widow'd  race  be  run; 
Dear  as  the  mother  to  the  son, 

More  than  my  brothers  are  to  me. 

[  306  ] 


XI 

Calm  is  the  morn  without  a  sound, 

Calm  as  to  suit  a  calmer  grief, 

And  only  thro'  the  faded  leaf 
The  chestnut  pattering  to  the  ground: 

Calm  and  deep  peace  on  this  high  wold, 

And  on  these  dews  that  drench  the  furze, 
And  all  the  silvery  gossamers 

That  twinkle  into  green  and  gold: 

Calm  and  still  light  on  yon  great  plain 

That  sweeps  with  all  its  autumn  bowers, 
And  crowded  farms  and  lessening  towers, 

To  mingle  with  the  bounding  main: 

Calm  and  deep  peace  in  this  wide  air, 
These  leaves  that  redden  to  the  fall; 
And  in  my  heart,  if  calm  at  all, 

If  any  calm,  a  calm  despair: 

Calm  on  the  seas,  and  silver  sleep, 

And  waves  that  sway  themselves  in  rest, 
And  dead  calm  in  that  noble  breast 

Which  heaves  but  with  the  heaving  deep. 

XIX 

The  Danube  to  the  Severn  gave 

The  darken'd  heart  that  beat  no  more ; 

They  laid  him  by  the  pleasant  shore, 
And  in  the  hearing  of  the  wave. 
[  307  ] 


OF    THE    LIFE    OF    THE    SPIRIT 

There  twice  a  day  the  Severn  fills; 
The  salt  sea-water  passes  by, 
And  hushes  half  the  babbling  Wye, 

And  makes  a  silence  in  the  hills. 

The  Wye  is  hush'd  nor  moved  along, 

And  hush'd  my  deepest  grief  of  all, 
When  fill'd  with  tears  that  cannot  fall, 

I  brim  with  sorrow  drowning  song. 

The  tide  flows  down,  the  wave  again 

Is  vocal  in  its  wooded  walls; 

My  deeper  anguish  also  falls, 
And  I  can  speak  a  little  then. 

XXI 

I  sing  to  him  that  rests  below, 

And,  since  the  grasses  round  me  wave, 
I  take  the  grasses  of  the  grave, 

And  make  them  pipes  whereon  to  blow. 

The  traveller  hears  me  now  and  then, 

And  sometimes  harshly  will  he  speak: 
'This  fellow  would  make  weakness  weak, 

And  melt  the  waxen  hearts  of  men.' 

Another  answers,  'Let  him  be, 

He  loves  to  make  parade  of  pain, 
That  with  his  piping  he  may  gain 

The  praise  that  comes  to  constancy.' 

A  third  is  wroth:  'Is  this  an  hour 

For  private  sorrow's  barren  song, 
[  308  ] 


SELECTIONS   FROM    IN   MEMORIAM 

When  more  and  more  the  people  throng 
The  chairs  and  thrones  of  civil  power? 

'A  time  to  sicken  and  to  swoon, 

When  Science  reaches  forth  her  arms 
To  feel  from  world  to  world,  and  charms 

Her  secret  from  the  latest  moon?' 

Behold,  ye  speak  an  idle  thing: 

Ye  never  knew  the  sacred  dust: 
I  do  but  sing  because  I  must, 

And  pipe  but  as  the  linnets  sing: 

And  one  is  glad;  her  note  is  gay, 

For  now  her  little  ones  have  ranged; 
And  one  is  sad ;  her  note  is  changed, 

Because  her  brood  is  stol'n  away. 

XXIII 

Now,  sometimes  in  my  sorrow  shut, 
Or  breaking  into  song  by  fits, 
Alone,  alone,  to  where  he  sits, 

The  Shadow  cloak'd  from  head  to  foot, 

Who  keeps  the  keys  of  all  the  creeds, 
I  wander,  often  falling  lame, 
And  looking  back  to  whence  I  came, 

Or  on  to  where  the  pathway  leads; 

And  crying,  How  changed  from  where  it  ran 
Thro'  lands  where  not  a  leaf  was  dumb; 
But  all  the  lavish  hills  would  hum 

The  murmur  of  a  happy  Pan : 
[  309  ] 


OF    THE    LIFE    OF    THE    SPIRIT 

When  each  by  turns  was  guide  to  each, 
And  Fancy  light  from  Fancy  caught, 
And  Thought  leapt  out  to  wed  with  Thought 

Ere  Thought  could  wed  itself  with  Speech ; 

And  all  we  met  was  fair  and  good, 

And  all  was  good  that  Time  could  bring, 
And  all  the  secret  of  the  Spring 

Moved  in  the  chambers  of  the  blood ; 

And  many  an  old  philosophy 

On  Argive  heights  divinely  sang, 
And  round  us  all  the  thicket  rang 

To  many  a  flute  of  Arcady. 

XXVII 

I  envy  not  in  any  moods 

The  captive  void  of  noble  rage, 

The  linnet  born  within  the  cage, 
That  never  knew  the  summer  woods; 

I  envy  not  the  beast  that  takes 

His  license  in  the  field  of  time, 
Unfetter'd  by  the  sense  of  crime, 

To  whom  a  conscience  never  wakes; 

Nor,  what  may  count  itself  as  blest, 

The  heart  that  never  plighted  troth 
But  stagnates  in  the  weeds  of  sloth ; 

Nor  any  want-begotten  rest. 

I  hold  it  true,  whate'er  befall; 
I  feel  it,  when  I  sorrow  most; 
[  310  ] 


SELECTIONS    FROM    IN    MEMORIAM 

'T  is  better  to  have  loved  and  lost 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all. 

XXVIII 

The  time  draws  near  the  birth  of  Christ: 
The  moon  is  hid;  the  night  is  still; 
The  Christmas  bells  from  hill  to  hill 

Answer  each  other  in  the  mist. 

Four  voices  of  four  hamlets  round, 

From  far  and  near,  on  mead  and  moor, 
Swell  out  and  fail,  as  if  a  door 

Were  shut  between  me  and  the  sound: 

Each  voice  four  changes  on  the  wind, 
That  now  dilate,  and  now  decrease, 
Peace  and  goodwill,  goodwill  and  peace, 

Peace  and  goodwill,  to  all  mankind. 

This  year  I  slept  and  woke  with  pain, 
I  almost  wish'd  no  more  to  wake, 
And  that  my  hold  on  life  would  break 

Before  I  heard  those  bells  again: 

But  they  my  troubled  spirit  rule, 

For  they  controll'd  me  when  a  boy; 
They  bring  me  sorrow  touch'd  with  joy, 

The  merry  merry  bells  of  Yule. 

XXXI 

When  Lazarus  left  his  charnel-cave, 

And  home  to  Mary's  house  return'd, 
[  311  ] 


OF   THE   LIFE    OF   THE    SPIRIT 

Was  this  demanded  —  if  he  yearn'd 
To  hear  her  weeping  by  his  grave? 

'Where  wert  them,  brother,  those  four  days?' 
There  lives  no  record  of  reply, 
Which  telling  what  it  is  to  die 

Had  surely  added  praise  to  praise. 

From  every  house  the  neighbours  met, 

The  streets  were  fill'd  with  joyful  sound, 
A  solemn  gladness  even  crown'd 

The  purple  brows  of  Olivet. 

Behold  a  man  raised  up  by  Christ! 

The  rest  remaineth  unreveal'd; 

He  told  it  not;  or  something  seal'd 
The  lips  of  that  Evangelist. 

XXXII 

Her  eyes  are  homes  of  silent  prayer, 

Nor  other  thought  her  mind  admits 
But,  he  was  dead,  and  there  he  sits, 

And  he  that  brought  him  back  is  there. 

Then  one  deep  love  doth  supersede 
All  other,  when  her  ardent  gaze 
Roves  from  the  living  brother's  face, 

And  rests  upon  the  Life  indeed. 

All  subtle  thought,  all  curious  fears, 

Borne  down  by  gladness  so  complete, 
She  bows,  she  bathes  the  Saviour's  feet 

With  costly  spikenard  and  with  tears. 
[  312  ] 


SELECTIONS    FROM    IN    MEMORIAM 

Thrice  blest  whose  lives  are  faithful  prayers, 
Whose  loves  in  higher  love  endure; 
What  souls  possess  themselves  so  pure, 

Or  is  there  blessedness  like  theirs? 


XXXIII 

O  thou  that  after  toil  and  storm 

Mayst  seem  to  have  reach'd  a  purer  air, 
Whose  faith  has  centre  everywhere, 

Nor  cares  to  fix  itself  to  form, 

Leave  thou  thy  sister  when  she  prays, 
Her  early  Heaven,  her  happy  views; 
Nor  thou  with  shadow' d  hint  confuse 

A  life  that  leads  melodious  days. 

Her  faith  thro'  form  is  pure  as  thine, 
Her  hands  are  quicker  unto  good: 
Oh,  sacred  be  the  flesh  and  blood 

To  which  she  links  a  truth  divine! 

See  thou,  that  countest  reason  ripe 
In  holding  by  the  law  within, 
Thou  fail  not  in  a  world  of  sin, 

And  ev'n  for  want  of  such  a  type. 

XXXVI 

Tho'  truths  in  manhood  darkly  join, 
Deep-seated  in  our  mystic  frame, 
We  yield  all  blessing  to  the  name 

Of  Him  that  made  them  current  coin ; 
[  313  ] 


OF    THE    LIFE    OF   THE    SPIRIT 

For  Wisdom  dealt  with  mortal  powers, 

Where  truth  in  closest  words  shall  fail, 
When  truth  embodied  in  a  tale 

Shall  enter  in  at  lowly  doors. 

And  so  the  Word  had  breath,  and  wrought 
With  human  hands  the  creed  of  creeds 
In  loveliness  of  perfect  deeds, 

More  strong  than  all  poetic  thought; 

Which  he  may  read  that  binds  the  sheaf, 
Or  builds  the  house,  or  digs  the  grave, 
And  those  wild  eyes  that  watch  the  wave 

In  roarings  round  the  coral  reef. 

XLV 

The  baby  new  to  earth  and  sky, 

What  time  his  tender  palm  is  prest 
Against  the  circle  of  the  breast, 

Has  never  thought  that  'this  is  I:' 

But  as  he  grows  he  gathers  much, 

And  learns  the  use  of 'I,'  and  'me/ 
And  finds  'I  am  not  what  I  see, 

And  other  than  the  things  I  touch.' 

So  rounds  he  to  a  separate  mind 

From  whence  clear  memory  may  begin, 
As  thro'  the  frame  that  binds  him  in 

His  isolation  grows  defined. 

This  use  may  lie  in  blood  and  breath, 

Which  else  were  fruitless  of  their  due, 
[314] 


SELECTIONS    FROM    IN    MEMORIAM 

Had  man  to  learn  himself  anew 
Beyond  the  second  birth  of  Death. 

XLVII 

That  each,  who  seems  a  separate  whole, 

Should  move  his  rounds,  and  fusing  all 
The  skirts  of  self  again,  should  fall 

Remerging  in  the  general  Soul, 

Is  faith  as  vague  as  all  unsweet: 
Eternal  form  shall  still  divide 
The  eternal  soul  from  all  beside; 

And  I  shall  know  him  when  we  meet: 

And  we  shall  sit  at  endless  feast, 

Enjoying  each  the  other's  good: 
What  vaster  dream  can  hit  the  mood 

Of  Love  on  earth?  He  seeks  at  least 

Upon  the  last  and  sharpest  height, 
Before  the  spirits  fade  away, 
Some  landing-place,  to  clasp  and  say, 

'Farewell!  We  lose  ourselves  in  light.' 


Be  near  me  when  my  light  is  low, 

When  the  blood  creeps,  and  the  nerves  prick 
And  tingle;  and  the  heart  is  sick, 

And  all  the  wheels  of  Being  slow. 

Be  near  me  when  the  sensuous  frame 

Is  rack'd  with  pangs  that  conquer  trust; 
[  315  ] 


OF    THE    LIFE    OF    THE    SPIRIT 

And  Time,  a  maniac  scattering  dust, 
And  Life,  a  Fury  slinging  flame. 

Be  near  me  when  my  faith  is  dry, 

And  men  the  flies  of  latter  spring, 
That  lay  their  eggs,  and  sting  and  sing 

And  weave  their  petty  cells  and  die. 

Be  near  me  when  I  fade  away, 

To  point  the  term  of  human  strife, 
And  on  the  low  dark  verge  of  life 

The  twilight  of  eternal  day. 

LIV 

Oh  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good 
Will  be  the  final  goal  of  ill, 
To  pangs  of  nature,  sins  of  will, 

Defects  of  doubt,  and  taints  of  blood; 

That  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet; 
That  not  one  life  shall  be  destroy'd, 
Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void, 

When  God  hath  made  the  pile  complete; 

That  not  a  worm  is  cloven  in  vain; 

That  not  a  moth  with  vain  desire 
Is  shrivell'd  in  a  fruitless  fire, 

Or  but  subserves  another's  gain. 

Behold,  we  know  not  anything; 

I  can  but  trust  that  good  shall  fall 
At  last — far  off — at  last,  to  all, 

And  every  winter  change  to  spring. 
C  316  ] 


SELECTIONS    FROM    IN    MEMORIAM 

So  runs  my  dream:  but  what  am  I? 
An  infant  crying  in  the  night: 
An  infant  crying  for  the  light: 

And  with  no  language  but  a  cry. 

LV 

The  wish,  that  of  the  living  whole 

No  life  may  fail  beyond  the  grave, 
Derives  it  not  from  what  we  have 

The  likest  God  within  the  soul? 

Are  God  and  Nature  then  at  strife, 

That  Nature  lends  such  evil  dreams? 
So  careful  of  the  type  she  seems, 

So  careless  of  the  single  life ; 

That  I,  considering  everywhere 

Her  secret  meaning  in  her  deeds, 
And  finding  that  of  fifty  seeds 

She  often  brings  but  one  to  bear, 

I  falter  where  I  firmly  trod, 

And  falling  with  my  weight  of  cares 
Upon  the  great  world's  altar-stairs 

That  slope  thro'  darkness  up  to  God, 

I  stretch  lame  hands  of  faith,  and  grope, 
And  gather  dust  and  chaff,  and  call 
To  what  I  feel  is  Lord  of  all, 

And  faintly  trust  the  larger  hope. 

[  317  ] 


OF   THE    LIFE    OF    THE    SPIRIT 

LXX 

I  cannot  see  the  features  right, 

When  on  the  gloom  I  strive  to  paint 
The  face  I  know;  the  hues  are  faint 

And  mix  with  hollow  masks  of  night ; 

Cloud-towers  by  ghostly  masons  wrought, 
A  gulf  that  ever  shuts  and  gapes, 
A  hand  that  points,  and  palled  shapes 

In  shadowy  thoroughfares  of  thought ; 

And  crowds  that  stream  from  yawning  doors, 
And  shoals  of  pucker'd  faces  drive ; 
Dark  bulks  that  tumble  half  alive, 

And  lazy  lengths  on  boundless  shores; 

Till  all  at  once  beyond  the  will 
I  hear  a  wizard  music  roll, 
And  thro'  a  lattice  on  the  soul 

Looks  thy  fair  face  and  makes  it  still. 

.  LXXIV 

As  sometimes  in  a  dead  man's  face, 

To  those  that  watch  it  more  and  more, 
A  likeness,  hardly  seen  before, 

Comes  out — to  some  one  of  his  race: 

So,  dearest,  now  thy  brows  are  cold, 

I  see  thee  what  thou  art,  and  know 
Thy  likeness  to  the  wise  below, 

Thy  kindred  with  the  great  of  old. 
[  318  ] 


SELECTIONS    FROM    IN    MEMORIAM 

But  there  is  more  than  I  can  see, 
And  what  I  see  I  leave  unsaid, 
Nor  speak  it,  knowing  Death  has  made 

His  darkness  beautiful  with  thee. 


LXXVIII 

Again  at  Christmas  did  we  weave 

The  holly  round  the  Christmas  hearth; 
The  silent  snow  possess'd  the  earth, 

And  calmly  fell  our  Christmas-eve: 

The  yule-clog  sparkled  keen  with  frost, 
No  wing  of  wind  the  region  swept, 
But  over  all  things  brooding  slept 

The  quiet  sense  of  something  lost. 

As  in  the  winters  left  behind, 

Again  our  ancient  games  had  place, 
The  mimic  picture's  breathing  grace, 

And  dance  and  song  and  hoodman-blind. 

Who  show'd  a  token  of  distress? 

No  single  tear,  no  mark  of  pain: 
O  sorrow,  then  can  sorrow  wane? 

O  grief,  can  grief  be  changed  to  less? 

O  last  regret,  regret  can  die! 

No — mixt  with  all  this  mystic  frame, 
Her  deep  relations  are  the  same, 

But  with  long  use  her  tears  are  dry. 

[  319  ] 


OF   THE    LIFE    OF    THE    SPIRIT 

LXXXII 
I  wage  not  any  feud  with  Death 

For  changes  wrought  on  form  and  face; 

No  lower  life  that  earth's  embrace 
May  breed  with  him,  can  fright  my  faith. 

Eternal  process  moving  on, 

From  state  to  state  the  spirit  walks; 

And  these  are  but  the  shatter'd  stalks, 
Or  ruin'd  chrysalis  of  one. 

Nor  blame  I  Death,  because  he  bare 
The  use  of  virtue  out  of  earth: 
I  know  transplanted  human  worth 
Will  bloom  to  profit,  otherwhere. 

For  this  alone  on  Death  I  wreak 

The  wrath  that  garners  in  my  heart: 
He  put  our  lives  so  far  apart 

We  cannot  hear  each  other  speak. 

LXXXIII 
Dip  down  upon  the  northern  shore, 

O  sweet  new-year  delaying  long; 

Thou  doest  expectant  nature  wrong; 
Delaying  long,  delay  no  more. 

What  stays  thee  from  the  clouded  noons, 
Thy  sweetness  from  its  proper  place? 
Can  trouble  live  with  April  days, 

Or  sadness  in  the  summer  moons? 
[  320  ] 


SELECTIONS    FROM    IN    MEMORIAM 

Bring  orchis,  bring  the  foxglove  spire, 
The  little  speedwell's  darling  blue, 
Deep  tulips  dash'd  with  fiery  dew, 

Laburnums,  dropping-wells  of  fire. 

O  thou  new-year,  delaying  long, 

Delayest  the  sorrow  in  my  blood, 
That  longs  to  burst  a  frozen  bud 

And  flood  a  fresher  throat  with  song. 

LXXXV 

This  truth  came  borne  with  bier  and  pall, 
I  felt  it,  when  I  sorrow'd  most, 
'T  is  better  to  have  loved  and  lost, 

Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all  — 

O  true  in  word,  and  tried  in  deed, 
Demanding,  so  to  bring  relief 
To  this  which  is  our  common  grief, 

What  kind  of  life  is  that  I  lead ; 

And  whether  trust  in  things  above 

Be  dimm'd  of  sorrow,  or  sustain'd; 
And  whether  love  for  him  have  drain'd 

My  capabilities  of  love ; 

Your  words  have  virtue  such  as  draws 
A  faithful  answer  from  the  breast, 
Thro'  light  reproaches,  half  exprest, 

And  loyal  unto  kindly  laws. 

My  blood  an  even  tenor  kept, 

Till  on  mine  ear  this  message  falls, 
[  321  ] 


OF    THE    LIFE    OF    THE    SPIRIT 

That  in  Vienna's  fatal  walls 
God's  finger  touch'd  him,  and  he  slept. 

The  great  Intelligences  fair 

That  range  above  our  mortal  state, 
In  circle  round  the  blessed  gate, 

Received  and  gave  him  welcome  there; 

And  led  him  thro'  the  blissful  climes, 

And  show'd  him  in  the  fountain  fresh 
All  knowledge  that  the  sons  of  flesh 

Shall  gather  in  the  cycled  times. 

But  I  remain'd,  whose  hopes  were  dim, 

Whose  life,  whose  thoughts  were  little  worth, 
To  wander  on  a  darken'd  earth, 

Where  all  things  round  me  breathed  of  him. 

O  friendship,  equal-poised  control, 

O  heart,  with  kindliest  motion  warm, 

0  sacred  essence,  other  form, 
O  solemn  ghost,  O  crowned  soul! 

Yet  none  could  better  know  than  I, 
How  much  of  act  at  human  hands 
The  sense  of  human  will  demands 

By  which  we  dare  to  live  or  die. 

Whatever  way  my  days  decline, 

1  felt  and  feel,  tho'  left  alone, 
His  being  working  in  mine  own, 

The  footsteps  of  his  life  in  mine ; 
[  322  ] 


SELECTIONS    FROM    IN    MEMORIAM 

A  life  that  all  the  Muses  deck'd 

With  gifts  of  grace,  that  might  express 
All-comprehensive  tenderness, 

All-subtilising  intellect: 

And  so  my  passion  hath  not  swerved 
To  works  of  weakness,  but  I  find 
An  image  comforting  the  mind, 

And  in  my  grief  a  strength  reserved. 

Likewise  the  imaginative  woe, 

That  loved  to  handle  spiritual  strife, 
Diffused  the  shock  thro'  all  my  life, 

But  in  the  present  broke  the  blow. 

My  pulses  therefore  beat  again 

For  other  friends  that  once  I  met; 
Nor  can  it  suit  me  to  forget 

The  mighty  hopes  that  make  us  men. 

I  woo  your  love :  I  count  it  crime 

To  mourn  for  any  overmuch; 

I,  the  divided  half  of  such 
A  friendship  as  had  master'd  Time; 

Which  masters  Time  indeed,  and  is 
Eternal,  separate  fi'om  fears: 
The  all-assuming  months  and  years 

Can  take  no  part  away  from  this: 

But  Summer  on  the  steaming  floods, 

And  Spring  that  swells  the  narrow  brooks, 
[  323  ] 


OF    THE    LIFE    OF   THE    SPIRIT 

And  Autumn,  with  a  noise  of  rooks, 
That  gather  in  the  waning  woods,  • 

And  every  pulse  of  wind  and  wave 

Recalls,  in  change  of  light  or  gloom, 
My  old  affection  of  the  tomb, 

And  my  prime  passion  in  the  grave: 

My  old  affection  of  the  tomb, 

A  part  of  stillness,  yearns  to  speak : 
'Arise,  and  get  thee  forth  and  seek 

A  friendship  for  the  years  to  come. 

<I  watch  thee  from  the  quiet  shore; 

Thy  spirit  up  to  mine  can  reach; 

But  in  dear  words  of  human  speech 
We  two  communicate  no  more.' 

And  I,  'Can  clouds  of  nature  stain 
The  starry  clearness  of  the  free  ? 
How  is  it?  Canst  thou  feel  for  me 

Some  painless  sympathy  with  pain?' 

And  lightly  does  the  whisper  fall ; 

'  'T  is  hard  for  thee  to  fathom  this ; 

I  triumph  in  conclusive  bliss, 
And  that  serene  result  of  all.' 

So  hold  I  commerce  with  the  dead; 

Or  so  methinks  the  dead  would  say; 

Or  so  shall  grief  with  symbols  play 
And  pining  life  be  fancy-fed. 
[  324  ] 


SELECTIONS    FROM    IN    MEMORIAM 

Now  looking  to  some  settled  end, 

That  these  things  pass,  and  I  shall  prove 
A  meeting  somewhere,  love  with  love, 

I  crave  your  pardon,  O  my  friend; 

If  not  so  fresh,  with  love  as  true, 
I,  clasping  brother-hands,  aver 
I  could  not,  if  I  would,  transfer 

The  whole  I  felt  for  him  to  you. 

For  which  be  they  that  hold  apart 

The  promise  of  the  golden  hours? 
First  love,  first  friendship,  equal  powers, 

That  marry  with  the  virgin  heart. 

Still  mine,  that  cannot  but  deplore, 
That  beats  within  a  lonely  place, 
That  yet  remembers  his  embrace, 

But  at  his  footstep  leaps  no  more, 

My  heart,  tho'  widow'd,  may  not  rest 
Quite  in  the  love  of  what  is  gone, 
But  seeks  to  beat  in  time  with  one 

That  warms  another  living  breast. 

Ah,  take  the  imperfect  gift  I  bring, 
Knowing  the  primrose  yet  is  dear, 
The  primrose  of  the  later  year, 

As  not  unlike  to  that  of  Spring. 

LXXXVI 

Sweet  after  showers,  ambrosial  air, 

That  rollest  from  the  gorgeous  gloom 
[  325  ] 


OF    THE    LIFE    OF    THE    SPIRIT 

Of  evening  over  brake  and  bloom 
And  meadow,  slowly  breathing  bare 

The  round  of  space,  and  rapt  below 
Thro'  all  the  dewy-tassell'd  wood, 
And  shadowing  down  the  horned  flood 

In  ripples,  fan  my  brows  and  blow 

The  fever  from  my  cheek,  and  sigh 

The  full  new  life  that  feeds  thy  breath 
Throughout  my  frame,  till  Doubt  and  Death, 

111  brethren,  let  the  fancy  fly 

From  belt  to  belt  of  crimson  seas 

On  leagues  of  odour  streaming  far, 
To  where  in  yonder  orient  star 

A  hundred  spirits  whisper  'Peace.' 

LXXXVIII 

Wild  bird,  whose  warble,  liquid  sweet, 

Rings  Eden  thro'  the  budded  quicks, 

0  tell  me  where  the  senses  mix, 
O  tell  me  where  the  passions  meet, 

Whence  radiate :  fierce  extremes  employ 
Thy  spirits  in  the  darkening  leaf, 
And  in  the  midmost  heart  of  grief 

Thy  passion  clasps  a  secret  joy: 

And  I — my  harp  would  prelude  woe — 

1  cannot  all  command  the  strings; 
The  glory  of  the  sum  of  things 

Will  flash  along  the  chords  and  go. 
[  326  ] 


SELECTIONS   FROM   IN   MEMORIAM 

XC 

He  tasted  love  with  half  his  mind, 

Nor  ever  drank  the  inviolate  spring 
Where  nighest  heaven,  who  first  could  fling 

This  bitter  seed  among  mankind; 

That  could  the  dead,  whose  dying  eyes 

Were  closed  with  wail,  resume  their  life, 
They  would  but  find  in  child  and  wife 

An  iron  welcome  when  they  rise: 

'T  was  well,  indeed,  when  warm  with  wine, 
To  pledge  them  with  a  kindly  tear, 
To  talk  them  o'er,  to  wish  them  here, 

To  count  their  memories  half  divine; 

But  if  they  came  who  past  away, 

Behold  their  brides  in  other  hands; 
The  hard  heir  strides  about  their  lands, 

And  will  not  yield  them  for  a  day. 

Yea,  tho'  their  sons  were  none  of  these, 

Not  less  the  yet-loved  sire  would  make 
Confusion  worse  than  death,  and  shake 

The  pillars  of  domestic  peace. 

Ah  dear,  but  come  thou  back  to  me: 

Whatever  change  the  years  have  wrought, 
I  find  not  yet  one  lonely  thought 

That  cries  against  my  wish  for  thee. 

[  327  ] 


OF   THE    LIFE    OF   THE    SPIRIT 

XCVI 

You  say,  but  with  no  touch  of  scorn, 

Sweet-hearted,  you,  whose  light-blue  eyes 
Are  tender  over  drowning  flies, 

You  tell  me,  doubt  is  Devil-born. 

I  know  not:  one  indeed  I  knew 

In  many  a  subtle  question  versed, 
Who  touch'd  a  jarring  lyre  at  first, 

But  ever  strove  to  make  it  true: 

Perplext  in  faith,  but  pure  in  deeds, 

At  last  he  beat  his  music  out. 

There  lives  more  faith  in  honest  doubt, 
Believe  me,  than  in  half  the  creeds. 

He  fought  his  doubts  and  gather'd  strength, 
He  would  not  make  his  judgment  blind, 
He  faced  the  spectres  of  the  mind 

And  laid  them:  thus  he  came  at  length 

To  find  a  stronger  faith  his  own; 

And  Power  was  with  him  in  the  night, 
Which  makes  the  darkness  and  the  light, 

And  dwells  not  in  the  light  alone, 

But  in  the  darkness  and  the  cloud, 
As  over  Sinai's  peaks  of  old, 
While  Israel  made  their  gods  of  gold, 

Altho'  the  trumpet  blew  so  loud. 
[  328  ] 


SELECTIONS    FROM   IN    MEMORIAM 

CIV 

The  time  draws  near  the  birth  of  Christ; 

The  moon  is  hid,  the  night  is  still; 

A  single  church  below  the  hill 
Is  pealing,  folded  in  the  mist. 

A  single  peal  of  bells  below, 

That  wakens  at  this  hour  of  rest 
A  single  murmur  in  the  breast, 

That  these  are  not  the  bells  I  know. 

Like  strangers'  voices  here  they  sound, 
In  lands  where  not  a  memory  strays, 
Nor  landmark  breathes  of  other  days, 

But  all  is  new  unhallow'd  ground. 

CVI 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky, 
The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light: 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night; 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new, 

Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow: 
The  year  is  going,  let  him  go; 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 

Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind, 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more; 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor, 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 
[  329  ] 


OF   THE    LIFE    OF    THE    SPIRIT 

Ring  out  a  slowly  dying  cause, 

And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife; 
Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life, 

With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin, 
The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times ; 
Ring  out,  ring  out  my  mournful  rhymes, 

But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 

Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood, 
The  civic  slander  and  the  spite; 
Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right, 

Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease ; 

Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold ; 

Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old, 
Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 

The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand; 
Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land, 

Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 

CXI 

The  churl  in  spirit,  up  or  down 

Along  the  scale  of  ranks,  thro'  all, 
To  him  who  grasps  a  golden  ball, 

By  blood  a  king,  at  heart  a  clown; 

The  churl  in  spirit,  howe'er  he  veil 

His  want  in  forms  for  fashion's  sake, 
[  330  ] 


SELECTIONS   FROM    IN   MEMORIAM 

Will  let  his  coltish  nature  break 
At  seasons  thro'  the  gilded  pale: 

For  who  can  always  act?  but  he, 

To  whom  a  thousand  memories  call, 
Not  being  less  but  more  than  all 

The  gentleness  he  seem'd  to  be, 

Best  seem'd  the  thing  he  was,  and  join'd 
Each  office  of  the  social  hour 
To  noble  manners,  as  the  flower 

And  native  growth  of  noble  mind ; 

Nor  ever  narrowness  or  spite, 
Or  villain  fancy  fleeting  by, 
Drew  in  the  expression  of  an  eye, 

Where  God  and  Nature  met  in  light; 

And  thus  he  bore  without  abuse 

The  grand  old  name  of  gentleman, 
Defamed  by  every  charlatan, 

And  soil'd  with  all  ignoble  use. 

cxv 

Now  fades  the  last  long  streak  of  snow, 
Now  burgeons  every  maze  of  quick 
About  the  flowering  squares,  and  thick 

By  ashen  roots  the  violets  blow. 

Now  rings  the  woodland  loud  and  long, 
The  distance  takes  a  lovelier  hue, 
And  drown'd  in  yonder  living  blue 

The  lark  becomes  a  sightless  song. 
[  331  ] 


OF    THE    LIFE    OF    THE    SPIRIT 

Now  dance  the  lights  on  lawn  and  lea, 
The  flocks  are  whiter  down  the  vale, 
And  milkier  every  milky  sail 

On  winding  stream  or  distant  sea; 

Where  now  the  seamew  pipes,  or  dives 
In  yonder  greening  gleam,  and  fly 
The  happy  birds,  that  change  their  sky 

To  build  and  brood;  that  live  their  lives 

From  land  to  land;  and  in  my  breast 
Spring  wakens  too;  and  my  regret 
Becomes  an  April  violet, 

And  buds  and  blossoms  like  the  rest. 

CXVIII 

Contemplate  all  this  work  of  Time, 
The  giant  labouring  in  his  youth; 
Nor  dream  of  human  love  and  truth, 

As  dying  Nature's  earth  and  lime; 

But  trust  that  those  we  call  the  dead 
Are  breathers  of  an  ampler  day 
For  ever  nobler  ends.  They  say, 

The  solid  earth  whereon  we  tread 

In  tracts  of  fluent  heat  began, 

And  grew  to  seeming-random  forms, 
The  seeming  prey  of  cyclic  storms, 

Till  at  the  last  arose  the  man; 

Who  throve  and  branch'd  from  clime  to  clime, 
The  herald  of  a  higher  race, 
[  332  ] 


SELECTIONS    FROM    IN    MEMORIAM 

And  of  himself  in  higher  place, 
If  so  he  type  this  work  of  time 

Within  himself,  from  more  to  more; 
Or,  crown'd  with  attributes  of  woe 
Like  glories,  move  his  course,  and  show 

That  life  is  not  as  idle  ore, 

But  iron  dug  from  central  gloom, 

And  heated  hot  with  burning  fears, 
And  dipt  in  baths  of  hissing  tears, 

And  batter'd  with  the  shocks  of  doom 

To  shape  and  use.  Arise  and  fly 

The  reeling  Faun,  the  sensual  feast; 
Move  upward,  working  out  the  beast, 

And  let  the  ape  and  tiger  die. 

.     CXIX 

Doors,  where  my  heart  was  used  to  beat 
So  quickly,  not  as  one  that  weeps 
I  come  once  more;  the  city  sleeps; 

I  smell  the  meadow  in  the  street; 

I  hear  a  chirp  of  birds ;  I  see 

Betwixt  the  black  fronts  long-withdrawn 
A  light-blue  lane  of  early  dawn, 

And  think  of  early  days  and  thee, 

And  bless  thee,  for  thy  lips  are  bland, 

And  bright  the  friendship  of  thine  eye ; 
And  in  my  thoughts  with  scarce  a  sigh 

I  take  the  pressure  of  thine  hand. 
[  333  ] 


OF    THE    LIFE    OF    THE    SPIRIT 

cxx 

I  trust  I  have  not  wasted  breath: 

I  think  we  are  not  wholly  brain, 
Magnetic  mockeries;  not  in  vain, 

Like  Paul  with  beasts,  I  fought  with  Death; 

Not  only  cunning  casts  in  clay: 

Let  Science  prove  we  are,  and  then 
What  matters  Science  unto  men, 

At  least  to  me?  I  would  not  stay. 

Let  him,  the  wiser  man  who  springs 

Hereafter,  up  from  childhood  shape 
His  action  like  the  greater  ape, 

But  I  was  born  to  other  things. 

CXXIII 

There  rolls  the  deep  where  grew  the  tree. 

O  earth,  what  changes  hast  thou  seen! 

There  where  the  long  street  roars  hath  been 
The  stillness  of  the  central  sea. 

The  hills  are  shadows,  and  they  flow 

From  form  to  form,  and  nothing  stands; 
They  melt  like  mist,  the  solid  lands, 

Like  clouds  they  shape  themselves  and  go. 

But  in  my  spirit  will  I  dwell, 

And  dream  my  dream,  and  hold  it  true; 

For  tho'  my  lips  may  breathe  adieu, 
I  cannot  think  the  thing  farewell. 
[334] 


SELECTIONS   FROM    IN    MEMORIAM 

CXXIV 

That  which  we  dare  invoke  to  bless; 

Our  dearest  faith ;  our  ghastliest  doubt ; 

He,  They,  One,  All;  within,  without; 
The  Power  in  darkness  whom  we  guess; 

I  found  Him  not  in  world  or  sun, 
Or  eagle's  wing,  or  insect's  eye; 
Nor  thro'  the  questions  men  may  try, 

The  petty  cobwebs  we  have  spun: 

If  e'er  when  faith  had  fall'n  asleep, 
I  heard  a  voice,  'Believe  no  more' 
And  heard  an  ever-breaking  shore 

That  tumbled  in  the  Godless  deep ; 

A  warmth  within  the  breast  would  melt 
The  freezing  reason's  colder  part, 
And  like  a  man  in  wrath  the  heart 

Stood  up  and  answer' d,  'I  have  felt.' 

No,  like  a  child  in  doubt  and  fear: 

But  that  blind  clamour  made  me  wise; 
Then  was  I  as  a  child  that  cries, 

But,  crying,  knows  his  father  near; 

And  what  I  am  beheld  again 

What  is,  and  no  man  understands; 
And  out  of  darkness  came  the  hands 

That  reach  thro'  nature,  moulding  men. 
[  335  ] 


OF   THE    LIFE    OF   THE    SPIRIT 

CXXVI 

Love  is  and  was  my  Lord  and  King, 
And  in  his  presence  I  attend 
To  hear  the  tidings  of  my  friend, 

Which  every  hour  his  couriers  bring. 

Love  is  and  was  my  King  and  Lord, 
And  will  be,  tho'  as  yet  I  keep 
Within  his  court  on  earth,  and  sleep 

Encompass' d  by  his  faithful  guard, 

And  hear  at  times  a  sentinel 

Who  moves  about  from  place  to  place, 
And  whispers  to  the  worlds  of  space, 

In  the  deep  night,  that  all  is  well. 

cxxx 

Thy  voice  is  on  the  rolling  air; 

I  hear  thee  where  the  waters  run; 

Thou  standest  in  the  rising  sun, 
And  in  the  setting  thou  art  fair. 

What  art  thou  then?  I  cannot  guess; 
But  tho'  I  seem  in  star  and  flower 
To  feel  thee  some  diffusive  power, 

I  do  not  therefore  love  thee  less: 

My  love  involves  the  love  before; 

My  love  is  vaster  passion  now; 

Tho'  mix'd  with  God  and  Nature  thou, 
I  seem  to  love  thee  more  and  more. 
[  336  ] 


PREFATORY  POEM  TO  MY  BROTHER  S  SONNETS 

Far  off  thou  art,  but  ever  nigh ; 

I  have  thee  still,  and  I  rejoice; 

I  prosper,  circled  with  thy  voice; 
I  shall  not  lose  thee  tho'  I  die. 


CXXXI 

O  living  will  that  shalt  endure 

When  all  that  seems  shall  suffer  shock, 

Rise  in  the  spiritual  rock, 
Flow  thro'  our  deeds  and  make  them  pure, 

That  we  may  lift  from  out  of  dust 
A  voice  as  unto  him  that  hears, 
A  cry  above  the  conquer'd  years 

To  one  that  with  us  works,  and  trust, 

With  faith  that  comes  of  self-control, 

The  truths  that  never  can  be  proved 
Until  we  close  with  all  we  loved, 

And  all  we  flow  from,  soul  in  soul. 


PREFATORY    POEM 
TO    MY    BROTHER'S   SONNETS 

MIDNIGHT,  JUNE  30,  1879 

I 

MIDNIGHT — in  no  midsummer  tune 
The  breakers  lash  the  shores: 
The  cuckoo  of  a  joyless  June 
Is  calling  out  of  doors  : 
[  337] 


OF   THE    LIFE    OF    THE    SPIRIT 

And  thou  hast  vanish' d  from  thine  own 
To  that  which  looks  like  rest, 
True  brother,  only  to  be  known 
By  those  who  love  thee  best. 

ii 

Midnight — and  joyless  June  gone  by, 
And  from  the  deluged  park 
The  cuckoo  of  a  worse  July 
Is  calling  thro'  the  dark: 

But  thou  art  silent  underground, 
And  o'er  thee  streams  the  rain, 
True  poet,  surely  to  be  found 
When  Truth  is  found  again. 

in 

And,  now  to  these  unsummer'd  skies 
The  summer  bird  is  still, 
Far  off  a  phantom  cuckoo  cries 
From  out  a  phantom  hill; 

And  thro'  this  midnight  breaks  the  sun 
Of  sixty  years  away, 
The  light  of  days  when  life  begun, 
The  days  that  seem  to-day, 

When  all  my  griefs  were  shared  with  thee, 
As  all  my  hopes  were  thine  — 
As  all  thou  wert  was  one  with  me, 
May  all  thou  art  be  mine ! 
[  338  ] 


VASTNESS 

VASTNESS 

I 
MANY  a  hearth  upon  our  dark  globe  sighs  after  many 

a  vanish 'd  face, 

Many  a  planet  by  many  a  sun  may  roll  with  the  dust 
of  a  vanish' d  race. 

IT 
Raving  politics,  never  at  rest — as  this  poor  earth's 

pale  history  runs, — 
What  is  it  all  but  a  trouble  of  ants  in  the  gleam  of  a 

million  million  of  suns? 

in 

Lies  upon  this  side,  lies  upon  that  side,  truthless  vio- 
lence mourn'd  by  the  Wise, 

Thousands  of  voices  drowning  his  own  in  a  popular 
torrent  of  lies  upon  lies; 

IV 

Stately  purposes,  valour  in  battle,  glorious  annals  of 

army  and  fleet, 
Death  for  the  right  cause,  death  for  the  wrong  cause, 

trumpets  of  victory,  groans  of  defeat ; 


Innocence  seethed  in  her  mother's  milk,  and  Charity 

setting  the  martyr  aflame ; 
Thraldom  who  walks  with  the  banner  of  Freedom,  and 

recks  not  to  ruin  a  realm  in  her  name. 
[  339  ] 


OF    THE    LIFE    OF   THE    SPIRIT 

VI 

Faith  at  her  zenith,  or  all  but  lost  in  the  gloom  of 

doubts  that  darken  the  schools; 
Craft  with  a  bunch  of  all-heal  in  her  hand,  follow'd 

up  by  her  vassal  legion  of  fools; 

VII 

Trade  flying  over  a  thousand  seas  with  her  spice  and 
her  vintage,  her  silk  and  her  corn; 

Desolate  offing,  sailorless  harbours,  famishing  popu- 
lace, wharves  forlorn; 

VIII 

Star  of  the  morning,  Hope  in  the  sunrise ;  gloom  of 

the  evening,  Life  at  a  close; 
Pleasure  who  flaunts  on  her  wide  down- way  with  her 

flying  robe  and  her  poison'd  rose; 

IX 

Pain,  that  has  crawl' d  from  the  corpse  of  Pleasure,  a 
worm  which  writhes  all  day,  and  at  night 

Stirs  up  again  in  the  heart  of  the  sleeper,  and  stings 
him  back  to  the  curse  of  the  light; 

x 

Wealth  with  his  wines  and  his  wedded  harlots ;  honest 

Poverty,  bare  to  the  bone; 
Opulent  Avarice,  lean  as  Poverty ;  Flattery  gilding  the 

rift  in  a  throne; 

[  340  ] 


VASTNESS 

XI 

Fame  blowing  out  from  her  golden  trumpet  a  jubilant 

challenge  to  Time  and  to  Fate; 
Slander,  her  shadow,  sowing  the  nettle  on  all  the 

laurel'd  graves  of  the  Great; 

XII 

Love  for  the  maiden,  crown'd  with  marriage,  no  re- 
grets for  aught  that  has  been, 

Household  happiness,  gracious  children,  debtless  com- 
petence, golden  mean; 

XIII 

National  hatreds  of  whole  generations,  and  pigmy 

spites  of  the  village  spire ; 
Vows  that  will  last  to  the  last  death-ruckle,  and  vows 

that  are  snapt  in  a  moment  of  fire ; 

xrv 

He  that  has  lived  for  the  lust  of  the  minute,  and  died 

in  the  doing  it,  flesh  without  mind ; 
He  that  has  nail'd  all  flesh  to  the  Cross,  till  Self  died 

out  in  the  love  of  his  kind; 

xv 

Spring  and  Summer  and  Autumn  and  Winter,  and  all 

these  old  revolutions  of  earth ; 
All  new-old  re  volutions  of  Empire — change  of  the  tide 

— what  is  all  of  it  worth? 
[341] 


OF   THE    LIFE    OF    THE    SPIRIT 

XVI 

What  the  philosophies,  all  the  sciences,  poesy,  vary- 
ing voices  of  prayer? 

All  that  is  noblest,  all  that  is  basest,  all  that  is  filthy 
with  all  that  is  fair? 

XVII 

What  is  it  all,  if  we  all  of  us  end  but  in  being  our  own 

corpse-coffins  at  last, 
Swallow'd  in  Vastness,  lost  in  Silence,  drown' d  in  the 

deeps  of  a  meaningless  Past? 

xvni 

What  but  a  murmur  of  gnats  in  the  gloom,  or  a  mo- 
ment's anger  of  bees  in  their  hive?  — 

Peace,  let  it  be!  for  I  loved  him,  and  love  him  for 
ever:  the  dead  are  not  dead  but  alive. 


CROSSING   THE    BAR 

SUNSET  and  evening  star, 

And  one  clear  call  for  me ! 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar, 

When  I  put  out  to  sea, 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep, 

Too  full  for  sound  and  foam, 
When  that  which  drew  from  out  the  boundless  deep 

Turns  again  home. 

[342] 


CROSSING   THE   BAR 

Twilight  and  evening  bell, 

And  after  that  the  dark! 
And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell, 

When  I  embark; 

For  tho'  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and  Place 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 

When  I  have  crost  the  bar. 


;  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FAdUl 


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